


The Guy Next Door

by JJK



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Gen, House Party, M/M, Practical Jokes, because we all need a little more of that in our lives, bed shopping, courf/R brotp, established E/R, furniture building party, ikea date, typical rom com nonsense, ultimate frisbee
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-06
Updated: 2015-01-23
Packaged: 2017-12-28 15:04:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 24,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/993325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JJK/pseuds/JJK
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m in love.” Courfeyrac rolled onto his back and draped his free arm over his eyes. “With the super hot, super brilliant, guy next door and I’m. Not. Allowed. To. Date. Him.”</p><p>or</p><p>Courfeyrac loses a bet, which means he's not allowed to ask anyone out on a date for a month. And then he meets Combeferre.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Based shamelessly on this wonderful idea: [ arcoiriseglitter.tumblr.com/post/63172629730/7](http://arcoiriseglitter.tumblr.com/post/63172629730/7) (thank you so much for letting me run with it!)
> 
> and dedicated to [Kim](http://combeferree.tumblr.com/) :)

“No, No!” Courfeyrac gasped, slamming his glass down on the table and staring at Enjolras with an expression of amused disbelief, heightened into the comedic by the amount of alcohol flowing through his veins. “That is not how you woo someone. Trust me, Enjolras,” he took a swig of drink and leaned back into seat, throwing an arm out across the back of the booth. “I do know a thing or two about dating.”  


Enjolras snorted. “That is not in question.”  


“So what are you implying?”  


“I’m not implying anything, I am saying that I’m right and you’re very, very wrong.”  


“Oh please. You wouldn’t know what flirting was it if danced in front of you naked, but for a tricolour.”  


“Oh yeah?” Enjolras demanded, cheeks flushing. Courfeyrac wasn’t sure if the alcohol or anger was to blame.  


“Yeah. You couldn’t get a date before me if you’re life depended on it.” Courfeyrac slurred, picking up his glass and downing his drink.  


Enjolras raised an eyebrow. “Really? You want to go there?”  


“Oh yeah. Bring it on,”  


“Do I smell a wager?” Bahorel asked gleefully, returning to the booth table with another round of shots and sliding onto the seat beside Courfeyrac.  


“If,” Courfeyrac lifted a pointed finger with a grin “you can get someone to go out with you before I get someone to go out with me, then I won’t ask anyone on a date for a month.” Looking entirely too pleased himself Courfeyrac sat back slightly and downed the shot offered from Bahorel.  


Enjolras glared at him at him for a beat.  


“What if you win?”  


“Then I get a date, and the knowledge that I beat you,” he chuckled.  


“Alright, you’re on.” Enjolras agreed, his glare fading into a dead pan. “Hey, Grantaire,” he called across the bar with utter calmness.  


“Hey, that’s not – ”  


“Yeah?” Grantaire abandoned lining up his pool shot and stood up to shout back his reply.  


“Want to go out tomorrow?”  


Grantaire leant on his pool cue, pretending to give his answer some thought.  


“Game of Thrones is on hiatus,” he smirked. “Sure.”  


That settled, Enjolras turned back to Courfeyrac and simply raised an eyebrow.  


“That doesn’t count! You’re already going out with him.” Courfeyrac gasped.  


“The rules never excluded that.”  


“But,” Courfeyrac turned to Bahorel and pleaded for backup. Instead he found Bahorel smirking.  


“You never said boyfriends didn’t count. So, no dating for a month, huh? This is going to be interesting.”  


“But,” Courfeyrac spluttered. “But…no… _shit_.”  


=  


No. Dating. For. A. Month. Fuck.  


The thought kept swirling round Courfeyrac’s head as he dragged his feet and hauled the last box up the stairs to his apartment, his new apartment. He dropped the box into the middle of the room along with the other ones and stood still for a moment letting everything wash over him.  


At least the apartment was nice. He’d looked at so many that he couldn’t actually remember which was it was he’d said yes to. Pale wooden floorboards, a small kitchen tucked into the corner of the lounge/kitchen/diner with pale blue cupboard doors, and large floor to ceiling windows which looked out onto a leafy street. It was actually rather calming.  


Alright, he told himself, taking a deep breath. No dating for a month, it wasn’t the end of the world. It might….might actually be a nice change of pace. A new apartment; a fresh start. It would certainly be useful to delay the awkward encounters of one night standees for a while. And it wasn’t like dating was his only facet. He could…. He snorted. Who was he kidding? This was going to be hell.  


Forgoing unpacking, which he really wasn’t in the mood for – moving alone had been hard enough, not that his friends hadn’t offered to help, but he couldn’t stand the sight of their smug faces at the moment – Courfeyrac dug some sweats and his trainers from a suitcase and rooted his iPod from his laptop case. If sex was off the table, then he was going to have to resort to _jogging_.  


=  


This was all Enjolras’ fault, he decided – and Grantaire’s, and Bahorel’s – as he jogged round the streets – surprising himself by only getting lost a couple of times; this wasn’t an area of the city he’d really frequented before. But work had picked up, and he couldn’t really excuse living in the tiny little apartment above a bar on the pay check he was getting now.  


He paused by the river to catch his breath, leaning on the railings and letting his head fall forwards slightly. His chest heaved a small rivulets of sweat trickled from his hairline as he thought about his predicament.  


Half the problem was he couldn’t stay mad at his friends for long; he never could.  


What he _could_ do, was be the most celibate freaking person since Mother Theresa. He always liked a challenge. And if all else failed he could lock himself in his apartment and re-watch Breaking Bad. Or just use Pontmercy as a wingman. That was a failsafe for scaring off potential dates. He stood up and slapped his hands on the railing with a grin. He’d show them.  


=  


Lost in a daze of anticipated pride and a general sense of self awesomeness, Courfeyrac was humming along to his iPod as he jogged up the steps to his new building and let himself into the lobby area. He’d barely made it a few steps inside when he collided into someone and sent them both toppling to the floor.  


He could blame it on the person for being stood behind the door, innocently picking up his mail, he should blame it on himself for not paying attention to where he was going – never mind actually _jogging_ through the front door, who jogs into a building without looking where they were going? – but instead he blamed it on the universe, which was clearly out to get him. Because the person he was now sprawled on top of, who was blinking up at him in an amused, slightly bewildered daze, was just out of this world, unfairly attractive. Like an angelic librarian.  


His glasses had fallen off one ear and were skewed across his eyes and his sandy coloured hair was mussed with the impact. He smelled like freshly brewed coffee and old books and Courfeyrac’s heart leapt in his chest.  


He lingered for a moment, one leg either side of this pagan god of everything Courfeyrac had ever wanted, hands propping him up just enough that their noses weren’t quite touching – before he remembered himself, realised that this was weird and scrambled to stand up, holding out a hand to help Angelic Librarian to his feet as well.  


“Sorry about that,” Courfeyrac chuckled, running a hand through his slightly damp and sweaty hair, catching a whiff of himself and balking. _Oh god,_ could this get any worse?  


“It’s alright. No harm done.” he replied with a smile, swooping down to collect his mail which had been thrown everywhere during the collision.  


Courfeyrac bent down to help gather the letters up. Their hands brushed as he passed over the bundle.  


“I’m Courfeyrac,” he introduced himself, standing up and actually holding out his hand. Well, he figured he’s already made enough of a dork of himself – why not go all out?  


“Combeferre,” the angelic librarian replied, shaking his hand with a firm, succinct shake.  


Courfeyrac was in love.  


Combeferre straightened his glasses and shuffled the envelopes into a neat pile, before glancing back up to smile at Courfeyrac and incline his head towards the stairs.  


There was no denying it.  


“You must be the new tenant in number five,” he said as they began to climb.  


“Yeah, I moved in this morning,”  


“This morning? Making quick work of trying to take out the neighbours, I see,” Combeferre smiled at him. He leant a little closer an added in a conspiratorial whisper, “Mme. Durand in flat 3 has the biggest living room, but if you’re looking for an extra bathroom then you’ve got to take down M. Lefebvre in number 8.”  


They reached the first landing but carried on past it, towards the second floor.  


“What about you, then?” Courfeyrac asked, barely restraining the smile that tugged at his cheeks.  


“Me? No, not worth it. I have a very boring apartment I’m afraid. Unless you’re into very old, abstract books.”  


Courfeyrac’s heart sang.  


They reached the second floor and Combeferre began fumbling for the keys in his pocket.  


“Well this is me,” he stopped outside the door directly opposite from Courfeyrac’s. “Let me know if I can help you with anything. Hopefully I’ll bump into you again sometime,” he said with an altogether too smug smile.  


Courfeyrac shook his head and let his face break into a grin.  


He watched Combeferre disappear behind the door to flat number 6 before letting his shoulders slump and opening his own door. He pushed it closed behind him, keeping his hand pressed to the door for a few moments before he trudged across the room and collapsed into a heap where the sofa would be, if he had a sofa yet. Unlike his old apartment, this one wasn’t furnished – which would mean taking a trip, or two, to Ikea, but right now he had bigger things to worry about.  


He fished his phone out of pocket, dialled Grantaire and began sobbing into the phone.  


“I hate my life,” he sighed dramatically. “And I hate Enjolras and I hate you. This isn’t fair.”  


“I’ll bite,” Grantaire resigned, “what’s not fair?”  


“I’m in love.” Courfeyrac rolled onto his back and draped his free arm over his eyes. “With the super hot, super brilliant, guy next door and I’m. Not. Allowed. To. Date. Him.”  


Unhelpfully Grantaire began to laugh.  


“It’s not funny!” Courfeyrac sat up and scowled at the wall.  


“It is a little funny.”  


“You mock my pain.”  


“That’s what friends are for.” Grantaire chirped.  


Courfeyrac wasn’t sure he preferred the old, miserable, pining-over-Enjolras Grantaire.  


He mumbled something unintelligible under his breath, Grantaire heavily suspected it might have been a petulant ‘I’m not friends with you anymore’, before actually replying with; “I didn’t mock you for your Enjolras Situation.”  


“Are you kidding? That’s all you did.”  


“But I still helped you.” He whined.  


“Touché. Look, I’d love to stay and help you figure this one out, honestly,” Grantaire sounded anything but. “But I’ve got a date with Enjolras,”  


Courfeyrac very nearly through his phone against the wall.  


“Not helping.” He groaned. “This is all so backwards. You’re going on a date with _Enjolras_ , and I’m home alone – I may as well curl up here and die,” he sobbed melodramatically.  


“Courfeyrac.” Grantaire said, suddenly less mocking. “Look, the bet was your idea.”  


“I _knooooow_. I’m an idiot.”  


“And - I can’t believe I’m actually helping you – you said you weren’t allowed to ask anyone out, right?”  


“Might as well have shot myself in the face.”  


“But you never said you couldn’t _agree_ to a date.”  


“What?” Courfeyrac caught his breath and blinked.  


“Get him to ask you out, you fuck wit. Now, I’ve got to go, I’ll catch you later; I want to meet this _super-hot, super awesome_ guy next door.”  


“Good _bye_ Grantaire.”  


“See you, ‘Courf.”  


He hung up and sat cross legged for a while before the realisation dawned on him. All he needed to do was to get Combeferre to ask _him_ out on a date. He grinned. 

Let operation Seduce Combeferre begin.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was never going to get over how fantastically attractive Combeferre was. His memory had failed him, Courfeyrac realised as he stepped out of his front door to find Combeferre sloping up the stairs from the floor below.

Courfeyrac quickly discovered that his new apartment had wonderful water pressure, but that sleeping on a nothing more than a futon did horrible things to his back. He rolled onto his front and held still for a moment, trying to summon the courage to stand up whilst bracing himself for how painful it might prove to be.  


He felt like an old man. This was ridiculous.  


He stood up gingerly and rolled his shoulder, cracking his back to remove the cricks. Maybe Operation: Seduce Combeferre would have to wait until he’d bought proper furniture. He lifted his arms above his head and arched forwards like he was about to dive. Something clicked and everything felt better. Which was a good thing, because there was no way he was putting a bed before Combeferre. Now, a bed underneath Combeferre was a different matter entirely, he smirked as he padded into the kitchen for breakfast – before he remembered that he had literally nothing in the kitchen cupboards, and about-turned for the shower.  


He was never going to get over how good the shower was. People had killed for showers as good as this. Probably.  


=  


He was also never going to get over how fantastically attractive Combeferre was. His memory had failed him, Courfeyrac realised as he stepped out of his front door to find Combeferre sloping up the stairs from the floor below.  


“Morning,” he said, voice laced with sleep. His hair was tufted like he’d been running his hand through it and his eyes looked red rimmed and tired behind his glasses, but he still had the warmest smile Courfeyrac had ever seen, and somehow the smell of coffee was seeping through over the tang of hospital disinfectant. Because Courfeyrac had been wrong on that count also, the super attractive guy next door wasn’t a librarian; if the blue scrubs under his pea coat were anything to go by, he was a doctor.  


“Good morning,” Courfeyrac chirped at him, ignoring the jive his heart was currently performing and resisting the urge to text Grantaire a stream of key smashed gibberish. 

“Or, good night I guess.”  


“Yeah, thanks,” Combeferre nodded sleepily as he fished his keys out his pocket and slipped through his door, “have a good day.”  


This was unfair. This was even more unfair than when Bahorel had confiscated his harmonica and prevented him from becoming a true proficient, or the time Jehan had stolen his bowties to make a hat. He needed a serious plan. But first, he needed coffee.  


And bagels.  


=  


By the time Courfeyrac got to work, after stopping to stock up on coffee and bagels, he had formulated a plan.  


With a wide grin spilling from ear to ear, he opened his office door with his elbow and very nearly dropped his coffee on the floor.  


“Morning,” Eponine grinned, looking up from Courfeyrac’s chair, with her boot clad feet kicked up on Courfeyrac’s desk.  


“Good morning,” he replied slowly, recovering from what should no longer continue to shock him. He carefully set his coffee on the desk and shrugged his jacket off to hang it on the coat stand behind the door.  


When he turned around Eponine was merrily drinking his coffee. Honestly, Courfeyrac didn’t expect anything less.  


“Christ, how much sugar do you take?” she asked sounded disgusted, but clearly not disgusted enough to stop drinking it.  


“Shouldn’t you be at your _own desk_?” he teased, swinging into the guest chair and reaching out to take back his coffee.  


Eponine shrugged, holding out the cup to him, but she didn’t let it go.  


“Now tell me about this super hot, super brilliant guy next door.”  


“He’s a doctor.” Courfeyrac groaned, snatching the cup and pouting, and loving every second of this. There were few things in life he loved more than gossiping about people’s romances; be it his own, or his friends, or passing strangers.  


“Seriously? Damn. I’m coming to visit. You’re free this evening right?”  


He shot her a look.  


Of course he was free. He wasn’t allowed to date, remember?  


Eponine smirked, before her eyebrows shot into her hairline and she began rearranging the papers on Courfeyrac’s desk.  


“Courfeyrac have you seen – ” the brusque voice of M. Danvers cut through the room. “Ah, Eponine, where is the Pelletier file? It should have been on my desk half an hour ago.”  


“Right here,” she stood up and handed out a manila folder. “I was just going through the – ”  


M. Danvers snatched the folder from her hand and stomped from the room before she could finish. Which was probably a good thing, because she had no idea what she was going to say.  


“He hates me.”  


“You hate him more.” Courf smirked, lifting his cup to his lips.  


“True,” she admitted with a grin, sinking once again into the padded swivel chair behind Courf’s desk and spinning from side to side slightly. “I can’t believe he gave you a fucking office.”  


“He doesn’t hate _me_ ,” Courfeyrac grinned, trying not to sound too pleased.  


“Lovable asshole. No one hates you.” She sounded annoyed about it.  


Which prompted Courfeyrac’s smile to grow even more. “Seeing as you love me so much,”  


“No.”  


“I didn’t even ask you anything yet!”  


“You’re asking for a favour, and the answer is no.”  


“It’s for super hot, super brilliant guy next door.”  


She didn’t respond, which meant she was listening.  


“I need you to hack into the hospital database and find out his schedule.”  


Eponine snorted. “No fucking way.”  


“But how can I seduce him if I don’t know when he’s free? What if I accidentally wake him up before a fifteen hour shift? It’s considerate, really.”  


“It’s not considerate. It’s stalking and I’m not helping you.”  


“Pretty please?”  


“No.”  


He began to flutter his eyelashes, and was about to promise her the world, but the ringing phone cut him off. The tone was far too shrill and far too loud, which told him Eponine had been playing with the settings.  


“Oops,” her smile was mischievous. “I was supposed to be gone before that happened.” Slinking from the chair she slipped round the desk and swiped the coffee mug from his hand. “Later then, yeah?” She lifted the mug in a salute and swept from the room. Courfeyrac had to smile, and then promptly answer the phone before the infuriating ringing permanently damaged his hearing.  


=  


Seeing as Eponine wasn’t going to help him uncover Combeferre’s schedule, Courfeyrac was just going to have to hope he wasn’t disrupting an important sleeping pattern. Feeling more nervous than the situation warranted, he lifted his hand and rapped out three sharp knocks on the door of number four.  


He was met with silence for a few long moments, and dropped his eyes to the floor. He was about to give up and try again later, when he finally heard footsteps creaking slightly on the floorboards and the lock being clicked. The door swung inwards and Courfeyrac lifted his gaze, performing a full panoramic sweep of Combeferre; from his bare crooked toes, up the soft navy blue lounge pants to his gloriously bare chest and fluffy hair. It was all he could do not to gape.  


“Sorry, did I wake you?” he asked, desperately hoping he hadn’t.  


“No, it’s alright.” He smiled, “To what do I owe the pleasure?” His hand was still on the edge door and he tipped his head to lean against it.  


“I was wondering if you had a hammer I could borrow?”  


“A hammer?”  


“I’m putting up some prints in my apartment, I have all the nails and picture hooks,” he explained, “but I realise I don’t have a hammer.”  


“A hammer.”  


“Yes.” Courfeyrac nodded and bounced slightly on his toes.  


“I. Yes. I must have one in here somewhere,” Combeferre glanced over his shoulder. “Let me have a look.”  


As he disappeared back inside his apartment Courfeyrac returned to his own, keeping the door propped wide open with a box, and giving Combeferre no choice but to follow him into it if he ever found a hammer.  


Which he did. Along with a shirt. Courfeyrac couldn’t deny he was a little disappointed.  


Hovering on the threshold, Combeferre rapped his knuckles against the open door.  


“Courfeyrac? I…found a hammer,”  


“In here!” he called from an alcove in the kitchen/diner/lounge, holding a large canvas print up against the wall where he intended to hang it.  


“Very minimalistic,” Combeferre chuckled, following Courfeyrac’s voice and crossing the startlingly empty room.  


His only tribute to even having thought about unpacking was that he’d piled the boxes into one corner (his clothes had all be hung up in his closet however, he wasn’t a heathen).  


“Thank you! You know, some people don’t get it,” he replied, putting on a lazy ‘hippie’ voice. “But I think it really reflects the inner peace and, you know? And the fact that I don’t have a car? And don’t really fancy carrying a sofa on the metro?”  


Combeferre smiled in spite of the obvious fact he was trying not to, and handed Courfeyrac the hammer. He reached up to gently tap the small nail into the wall, intentionally over reaching and forcing his shirt to ride up a little at the hip. He could feel Combeferre staring, which had been part of the plan all along.  


“I have a car.”  


Courfeyrac stepped back and admired the lay of the picture before turning to Combeferre with a slightly quizzical look.  


“Furniture. I have a car.”  


Despite looking completely calm and together, he sounded… dare Courfeyrac say flustered? He wanted to clap with glee.  


“If you ever do decide to forgo the minimalist look,” Combeferre finished, scratching at the back of his neck slightly.  


“I think I’m suddenly over it,” Courfeyrac grinned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [JJ91](http://archiveofourown.org/users/JJ91/pseuds/JJ91) for the idea about furniture shopping :) and to [Batusa](http://enjolraspermitsit.tumblr.com/) for betaing this chapter for me :))


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Ikea date,” Courf grinned, before realising what he’d said. “I mean, not a date. Definitely not a date. Just furniture shopping, dull, tedious, totally unromantic furniture shopping.”
> 
> “Sounds like a date.” Enjolras countered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [Batusa](http://enjolraspermitsit.tumblr.com/) for beta-ing this for me :)

“Saturday, then,” Combeferre confirmed, gently placing the last glass in the cupboard and closing the door. Under his instruction, they’d begun to unpack the items which currently had a home; namely the kitchenware, and other miscellany which would live in the various built-in closets throughout the apartment.

“Sounds good,” Courfeyrac grinned at him, sliding a stack of plates to the back of a cupboard; needing to stand on his toes to reach.

“I’ll have work in the evening, so we’ll have to go early.”

Courfeyrac bounced back down onto the flats of his feet and shrugged. “That’s fine with me. And thank you – again – I – ”

The intercom buzzed and cut him off.

“It’s me!” Eponine chirped, her voice slightly tinny through the speaker. Courfeyrac apprehensively pressed the button to unlock the door. He’d been enjoying Combeferre’s company, he wasn’t so sure he wanted the intrusion.

“Nice building!” she appraised, waltzing through the open door and marching straight for the window, standing before it with her hand on her hip, which was cocked slightly as she surveyed the view. He couldn’t help but notice that she’d chosen her clingiest skinny jeans and a pair of heeled boots for the occasion. He barely managed to refrain from rolling his eyes.

He also noticed that she wasn’t alone.

Obviously they’d climbed the stairs at a more normal pace, and as such Enjolras and Grantaire were only just entering through door, pausing before crossing the threshold like decent people would.

“Hey, Courf, hope you don’t mind?” Grantaire asked, running a hand through his hair a little nervously, whilst Enjolras surveyed Combeferre with a scowl. Clearly he hadn’t forgotten the terms of the bet – Courfeyrac was stupidly harbouring the hope that might have been too drunk to remember.

“Who’s this?” he asked, to the point and not very polite – well, it was Enjolras, what else could Courf expect?

“Combeferre,” he introduced himself. “l live across the hall. And I probably should be getting back.”

“We’re going to order take out,” Eponine informed him, and Courfeyrac, turning from the view and not very subtly looking him up and down. “If you want to join us?”

“Thanks, but no. Not on this occasion. I have work in a few hours – I should really be getting back. So, Saturday?” he asked Courfeyrac. “We’ll leave around 10?”

“Can’t wait,” Courfeyrac replied honestly as Combeferre moved towards the door.

“It was nice meeting you all,” he gave a half wave, half salute thing and disappeared across the hall.

“Definitely gorgeous,” Eponine affirmed, not even bothering to make sure his front door was properly closed. “and definitely gay,” she added reassuringly.

Foolishly, the thought that he might not be hadn’t even crossed Courfeyrac’s mind.

“How can you be sure?” he asked, now worried.

“He didn’t even try to check out my ass,” she beamed, wiggling her hips for good measure and drawing the stares from both Courf and Grantaire as if to prove her point.

“Or he could just be a gentleman.” Enjolras told her, looking her in the eye with a slightly raised eyebrow.

“Not everyone is a marble lover of liberty,” she smirked. “Honestly, R, how do you cope?”

“So what’s happening on Saturday?” Grantaire chose to ask, instead of honouring Eponine with an answer. He pulled a box labelled Books towards him and sat down on it gingerly, hoping it wouldn’t fold beneath his weight. It didn’t.

“Ikea date,” Courf grinned, before realising what he’d said. “I mean, not a date. Definitely not a date. Just furniture shopping, dull, tedious, totally unromantic furniture shopping.”

“Sounds like a date.” Enjolras countered.

Eponine burst into laughter and moved across the room to punch Grantaire lightly on the arm. “Seriously? How do you cope? – Apollo, that does not constitute a date.”

“Honest-to-God it’s not,” Courfeyrac said hurriedly, gesturing frantically. Enjolras couldn’t take this small shred of something away from him as well, could he? “It’s just because he has a car – just platonic, completely and utterly, I mean you could come if you like,” he added with a laugh before he could stop himself. Why couldn’t he stop himself?

“I think we might. Just to make sure it’s definitely not a date.”

“Really? Enjolras?” Grantaire looked him slightly dismayed. The fact that he’d chosen to forgo the nickname underlining his sentiment. “Don’t we have better things to be doing than policing Courfeyrac’s love life?”

Enjolras moved over to him and shrugged, trailing a finger up and down Grantaire’s bicep thoughtfully. “Well, we do need a new TV cabinet,” he said slowly and carefully, his finger drawing a shiver from Grantaire. “so it wouldn’t be a completely wasted day.” A smirk played across his lips when Grantaire shot Courf and apologetic look and consented. “And I’m sure Courfeyrac doesn’t want to be known as a welcher, now does he?”

Courfeyrac slumped forwards onto the breakfast bar and buried his face into his arms.

“I think I’d rather be a welcher and be dating Combeferre,” he muttered into his forearm. “You know I’m not sure I see the upside of honouring this bet,” he added, looking up with puppy dog eyes. Had it been anyone but Enjolras, who had been putting up with Courfeyrac and his carrying-on since high school, they might have been moved by them. “I mean, what’s in it for me?”

“A sense of honour?” Enjolras tried.

The puppy dog eyes were accompanied by a pout. 

“The fortitude of being a man of your word.”

“My _drunken_ word, so it doesn’t really count.”

“Please,” Grantaire snorted. “You’ve held me to my drunken words more times than I can count.”

“But really, what’s to stop me from marching over there and just asking him out?” Courfeyrac stood up, his face lighting up slightly. His curls seemed to hold more bounce all of a sudden.

“Because we’ll never trust you again. No one will ever participate in your bets again – drunken or otherwise.”

Courfeyrac stopped in his tracks. He’d been halfway to the door.

“You’ll have no more sexual tension bingo, no more Bahorel singing karaoke,”

Courfeyrac’s shoulders slumped. His curls deflated, Grantaire swore they did.

“It’s a month, Courf,” Eponine added softly. “You’re already two days in.”

“Just twenty-nine to go,” Grantaire grinned.

“Trust you to pick one of the longer months.” She laughed. “Now who’s up for takeout?”

=

Saturday morning dawned, and with it came the wonderful prospect of spending the day with Combeferre. Courfeyrac had been up since six, trying to contain his giddy smile, and trying to find the perfect outfit. He ended up changing six times before Combeferre knocked on his door, ten am sharp, which meant he almost wasn’t ready in time.

“Sorry,” he grinned, slightly flustered, as he pulled the door to behind him and finished fluffing up his hair.

As good as Combeferre had looked sleepily dishevelled, there was no denying he scrubbed up well. Light grey, close fitting jeans and a maroon Henley jersey clung to him unfairly. His pea coat was draped over his arm and he’d swapped his glasses for contacts. Courfeyrac wanted to drag him back inside his apartment, back him up against the dining room table and run his hands across every inch of him. Except that would be a little bit forward, even for him – not to mention the fact that he didn’t have a dining room table; yet.

In short, he was perfect. Made all the more so by the fact that he didn’t mind Courfeyrac changing every single present on his radio in the car, and blasting catchy pop tunes at an indecent volume as they drove to the store. Courfeyrac couldn’t be sure, he was a little preoccupied with singing his heart out, but he thought he caught Combeferre smiling at him a few times. He even let the song play out before pulling the key out of the ignition when they reached the store, and he was definitely grinning as he watched Courfeyrac deliver the last note with a flourish.

“Wonderful,” he chuckled. “Though I’m not sure you should quit your day job. Unless – of course – that is your day job?”

“Ha!” Courfeyrac scrambled out of the passenger seat and closed the door carefully behind him. “But no. I manage Human Resources at – ” he stopped in his tracks and trailed off as he realised who was standing by the front door of Ikea, arms folded and a smug little smile on his face.

“Good morning,” Enjolras greeted him, not even trying to be discrete. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Oh yeah, fancy that,” Grantaire grumbled, taking one last drag on his cigarette before flicking it onto the pavement, ignoring the looks everyone gave him for littering. “Not like we’ve been stood here waiting for half an hour, or anything.”

If Combeferre thought Courfeyrac’s friends were strange, he was gracious enough to keep it to himself.

Courfeyrac was beginning to think it might not be the end of the world that Enjolras had crashed this not-a-date shopping trip. That was until he discovered that Enjolras and Combeferre were actual soulmates.

“How is this happening?” Courfeyrac whispered to Grantaire, as they trailed behind them. He looked like a kicked puppy. Grantaire was trying his best not to laugh as Courfeyrac moped along, desperately straining to hear what was being discussed – and continually disappointed that it wasn’t him. He’d lost track of what they were talking about – it didn’t help that they were jumping from topic to topic, already practically finishing each other’s sentences and following trains of thought Courfeyrac couldn’t even comprehend. “This isn’t supposed to happen,”

“Tell me about it,” Grantaire mumbled, kicking at a cabinet and earning a scowl from a shop assistant.

“We need to separate them.”

Grantaire snorted. “Good luck with that.”

“Can you stop being a pessimist for one moment, and actually try to help?” Courfeyrac implored. “Can’t you see our boyfriends are about to elope together?!”

Grantaire turned and raised an eyebrow at Courfeyrac. “Your boyfriend?”

“Future boyfriend – but not if we don’t separate them! Don’t laugh. This is not funny, this is a disaster.”

He wanted to grab Grantaire by the shoulders and shake him. Instead he found Grantaire planting his hand on his shoulders and staring him in the eye.

“Courfeyrac, calm down. Nobody is eloping. Jesus, I’m too sober for this shit.” He released his hold and turned to Enjolras, shouting to him across the shop.

“Hey, Enjy!” he raised his voice, intentionally using the nickname Enjolras hated even more than Apollo. “I’m bored as fuck, here. Can we get this TV cabinet and go?” he marched off the main aisle into a maze of kitchens, leaving Enjolras no choice but to follow him.

Courfeyrac caught up to Combeferre who was smiling a little sheepishly at him.

“Sorry, I got a little carried away.”

Courfeyrac shook his head, bouncing on his toes slightly. It was very difficult to stay even remotely angry with Combeferre, especially when he was smiling like that.

“So, where shall we start?” he was a couple of inches taller than Courfeyrac and swept his gaze around the shop, hands fidgeting slightly by his sides.

Courfeyrac grabbed one of those hands and pulled Combeferre down the aisle, in the opposite direction to where Grantaire had lead Enjolras.

“Beds,” he grinned over his shoulder.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bed shopping.

“Do you prefer a soft bed, or one with a firm base?” Combeferre asked, peering down at a label on the first bed, a Divan with far too many ‘a’s in its name. 

“Sorry?” Courfeyrac had been distracted by the sloping curve of his back. 

“Beds, soft or hard?” 

He bit his lip to prevent the immature comment from slipping out unbidden. Now was hardly the time for crude jokes about hardness. Instead he shook his head and gave Combeferre his best disapproving look, modelled largely on Enjolras’ resting face. 

“That’s not how you look for beds.” Courfeyrac told him. 

“Oh?” Combeferre straightened up and blinked expectantly. For one stalling moment, a knowing look crossed his face, and Courfeyrac felt sure Combeferre knew exactly what he was doing. But it passed, and he remained looking as unassuming – albeit unfairly attractive – as usual. 

“No. This is how you look for beds,” he smirked, leaping onto the closet bed and throwing his arms out behind his head. If his shirt rode up a little so the hem was brushing against his hipbones, then all the better. 

Okay, he definitely caught Combeferre staring that time. 

“Doesn’t strike me as being the most efficient method,” Combeferre smiled. 

“No but it’s the most fun,” Courfeyrac beamed in response. He wiggled his hips on the divan. “Nope. Don’t like it, let’s try that one.” He bounded to his feet and grabbed Combeferre by the hand, giving him no choice but to follow, and be dragged forwards onto another bed frame. This time with a wooden slatted base and cushioned headboard. Courfeyrac splayed his arms and legs everywhere, and slunk down off the pillows, watching Combeferre straighten the lay of his Henley jersey. 

“Verdict?” 

Courfeyrac rolled onto his side his arm curled under his face and just grinned up at Combeferre. 

_I love you._

Combeferre smiled, an eyebrow piqued with curiosity as he waited for Courf’s answer. 

“It’s only the second bed, I don’t have a verdict yet.” He rolled off the mattress and skipped away before he said something stupid. 

= 

Four hours later, they struggled up the stairs of the apartment building, arms laden with boxes of flat pack furniture. The larger items, such as the bed and sofa, were to be delivered the following day, but for now Courfeyrac would at least have shelves and chairs and a dining room table. 

Enjolras and Grantaire had been found, their argument obviously forgotten because they’d been hiding behind a wardrobe, pressed against the wall and displaying a sickening display of public affection. Courfeyrac had pretended to be disgusted as he dragged them apart and insisted they come home to help him assemble his furniture. 

“Les Amis, assemble!” he grinned. Then, because he was far too proud of the Avengers reference, he texted it to everyone. (Which Grantaire followed up with the explanation that a furniture building party would promptly take place at Courfeyrac’s new apartment). 

Unsurprisingly, everyone turned up. Courfeyrac suspected it was more out of curiosity of meeting Combeferre than from any desire to fathom out Ikea instructions; but he wasn’t about to complain. With this many hands his apartment would be outfitted in no time (and he’d finally have a table to back Combeferre against – wait, what?) 

= 

Really it was a blessing everyone turned up (perhaps not Bossuet, Courfeyrac couldn’t imagine putting him in the vicinity of hammers and nails was an altogether very clever idea), because really how was Courfeyrac supposed to concentrate when Combeferre had his sleeves rolled up, displaying the wonderful curve of the his muscular forearms. When he kept running a hand through his hair, disarraying it into a hopelessly attractive tousled look. _When he kept bending over_ , and my god did he have a lovely ass. 

“You alright there,” Bahorel smirked, popping the cap off a beer bottle. It hissed slightly as bubbles rose to the surface and air escaped, pulling Courf from his daze in time to register he now had a bottle in his hand and actually hold onto it. He blinked, realised he was stood dazed in the centre of the living amidst the hive of furniture building activity, and grinned sheepishly. 

Thankfully Bahorel didn’t say anything, but the mischievous gleam in his eye and the wicked curl of his smile told Courfeyrac he’d just given him plenty of ammunition for future taunting. Now, normally it would take a lot more than to faze Courfeyrac, but he was already on edge from being sexually frustrated, and Bahorel was clearly going to use that to his advantage. Courfeyrac shot a glare at Enjolras, this was all his fault. Though as he focused on the scene before him – Enjolras staring curiously at a dining room chair he’d somehow managed to build with two legs on each side of the seat, resulting in a curious lightning shaped creation, whilst Grantaire rolled around on the floor laughing – his anger dissipated and a grin cracked his face. Knocking back a swig of beer he abandoned the table leg he’d been holding to and wandered over to ~~laugh with Grantaire~~ help. 

= 

Before long the apartment was a chaotic mess. The sound of hammers on nails, shouts of exasperation, laughter, and general chit chatter filled the air. Combeferre was seamlessly folded into the group, fitting in so well it was almost like he’d always been there. Marius even invited him to come along to their next meeting at the Muisan, before blushing tomato red and flicking his panic stricken gaze to Enjolras – perhaps fearing it wasn’t his place to invite new members along. 

Courfeyrac had long ago lost the ability to contain his grin. He was beaming, practically bouncing up and down with unadulterated delight. He was surrounded by his friends, on the merry side of drunk, and very steadily realising he was absolutely smitten with the man sat before him. 

= 

Gradually the noise grew louder and rowdier as more and more alcohol was consumed, and furniture building was forgotten in favour of drinking games. 

Thankfully they were prevented from playing “Spin the bottle!” by a loud crash clattering from the alcove in the living room. 

“I’m alright!” Bossuet called weakly, sounding anything but. Courf scrambled to his feet, discarding the allen key and beer bottle he’d been juggling, and skidded across the wooden flooring to find his friend. Combeferre was hot on his feels, as were Bahorel and Eponine – flying in from where they’d been assembling a wardrobe in the bedroom. 

Bossuet was sprawled underneath a stack of former shelves which had come clean off the wall. One had snapped clean in two, by the looks of things as it hit his head. 

“Maybe I did need that spare screw after all,” he muttered, trying to push himself to his feet. 

Bahorel glanced guiltily at the screw in his palm; the one he’d thought must have belonged to the wardrobe and which Bossuet had graciously handed over. 

“Hold on, probably best not to move,” Combeferre said gently, stepping over the shelf boards. “Help me lift them off him?” 

Freeing Bossuet from the rubble, Courfeyrac knelt beside him. His tracked across Bossuet’s face, brow furrowed with concern. 

“I’m fine, Courf. Honestly. ‘Tis but a minor bump.” He tried to laugh it off, although it sounded more like a groan. 

“I think you might have a concussion,” Combeferre disagreed. “A knock like that? Could even be a hairline fracture. I suggest we take you to the hospital.” 

Bossuet began to protest, stipulating that he didn’t want to cause any trouble. 

“I’m headed there anyway,” Combeferre just smiled, before turning to Courf, “Sorry to leave early.” 

“What? No. I’m coming with you.” 

“You don’t have too,” Bossuet placed a hand on his arm and smiled. His pupils were blown wide. Courfeyrac was no medical expert, but he expected that wasn’t a good sign; especially not with the light from the living room shining right on his face. 

“No, but I’m going to.” Courfeyrac smiled, covering Bossuet’s hand and squeezing gently. 

He didn’t see the small smile which tugged at the corner of Combeferre’s mouth. 

= 

Bossuet did indeed have a concussion, and the very charming, very thorough ER attendant insisted that he stayed in overnight for supervision. 

“You sure you’ll be okay?” Courfeyrac asked as he hovered by the foot of the hospital bed. He was very reluctant to abandon his friend. 

“More than okay.” He grinned, eyes crinkling. “I may even get a date out this, not so unlucky after all.” 

Courfeyrac had to shake his head. Bossuet’s never ending optimism was inspiring. Though he couldn’t blame him, that doctor had been cute. 

Combeferre had unfortunately been dragged away to deal with something urgent the moment he stepped through the front doors, but they’d been seen by a Doctor Joly, whose name certainly seemed to fit his disposition. And he and Bossuet had seemed to hit it off. But the Florence Nightingale move didn’t work as often as the movies made out (Courf would know, he’d tried it often enough). 

“I’ll see you tomorrow then,” he patted a reassuring hand on Bossuet’s ankle before leaving, brushing past a doctor on his way out. Another check-up so soon? Courfeyrac hovered in the door way, not bothering to be subtle – not that it matter the two were so engrossed with each other that they didn’t notice him lingering. Maybe Bossuet _would_ get a date after all. 

With a heart as big as Courf’s it was impossible not to feel happy for his friend, but it was overshadowed slightly by his overwhelming desire to date man currently running around saving the hospital and all the patients in it. 

With a soft smile he pulled the door closed and padded down the corridor, brushing his fingers down the wall and planning his next move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Sorry if this seems a little choppy, it was written across a few weeks and I can't seem to edit it into anything more coherent. It's been a while since I posted so I figured this was better than nothing :] - hopefully you agree!)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To jog through the front door of the apartment complex and crash into someone was a silly thing to do. To do it again, in the space of two weeks, was just ridiculous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Kim :) <3 I hope this successfully distracts you!

To jog through the front door of the apartment complex and crash into someone was a silly thing to do. To do it again, in the space of two weeks, was just ridiculous. Thankfully, Courfeyrac managed to catch himself this time, by grabbing hold of the door frame and almost pulling a muscle in the process. 

“Whoa!” he exhaled, heart hammering, eyes screwed shut for an impact that never came. 

“You must be Courfeyrac,” a cheerful voice laughed at him. 

Cautiously he inched an eye open, very much pulling his ‘why aren’t I dead?’ face – it would surprise you to know how often it graced his features. 

“Jean Prouvaire,” the cheerful voice continued, extending a hand. “But call me Jehan.” 

Courf shook the offered hand and grinned. Now that he had his eyes open he could see that Jehan was a petite young man with a potted plant tucked into the crook of his elbow. It was an exuberantly leafy plant, tendrils of green falling over his arm and trailing towards the floor. By all accounts it was an odd thing to be holding, but in the arms of Jean Prouvaire it looked entirely natural. 

“You don’t live here,” Courfeyrac told him, double checking. He’d made sure to introduce himself to everyone in the building – and provide them with a batch of homemade cookies. They’d been misshapen and lumpy and most of the residents had looked at him like he was mad, but he persisted. It was important to get to know your neighbours (it had nothing to do with the fact that now he wasn’t dating he had an awful lot of free time on his hands). 

“Oh! No. I’m a friend of Combeferre’s,” 

“Ah,” Courf rocked on his heels and finally closed the front door behind him. “Pleasure to meet you.” 

“Likewise.” Jehan grinned. He shifted the plant in his arm slightly, before continuing with equal glee, “I’ve heard lots about you.” 

Courfeyrac’s heart somersaulted. “What?” 

“Good things, I promise. Well, apart from being tackled to the floor,” 

Courfeyrac was still trying to process the fact that Combeferre had told his friends about him. 

“But apparently it’s a common problem. I’ll let him know.” Jehan continued, still smiling. 

“Oh yeah, wouldn’t want him to feel singled out. I tackle all of my neighbours,” Courfeyrac eventually managed. 

“I bet you do.” 

Wait, what was that supposed to mean? 

Courfeyrac scurried across the hallway to catch up with Jehan who was disappearing round the curve of the stair case. 

“Um, I don’t actually think Combeferre’s in at the moment,” he informed Jehan, catching up with him on the first floor landing. Hoping the next sentence wouldn’t make him sound too much like a stalker, “He doesn’t tend to finish until seven on Tuesday’s.” It was a problem that he was learning Combeferre’s schedule, and starting to plan his trips down the post box or laundry room based on when Combeferre would be leaving for or returning from work. 

“I know,” Jehan just smiled. “I have a key.” 

They reached the second floor and Jehan once again shifted the plant pot so he could reach into his jacket pocket for a key. He hadn’t bid Courfeyrac farewell, and really, was Courfeyrac supposed to just pass up this opportunity to see inside Combeferre’s apartment? 

He crossed the threshold after Jehan, pushing the door gently closed behind him and swept his gaze around the open plan living room/dining/kitchen. It was a mirror of Courfeyrac’s flat across the hall, with the same sweeping floor to ceiling windows, the same alcove tucked to the side of the living room, leading the way to where Courfeyrac presumed the bedroom would be. But for all the similarities of floor plan, it couldn’t have been more different. Combeferre hadn’t been lying when he said he had an abundance of old, abstract books. Every available patch of wall was hidden behind bookcases which groaned under the weight of what must be countless thousands of books and interesting little artefacts. A framed display of moths was propped up on the sideboard, balanced on yet another stack of vintage tomes. A small wooden globe rested on layered sheets of parchment, like a paperweight, alongside what looked like a hundred year old microscope. 

Jehan crossed the room towards the window, to the little trestle table which stood before it. He swept the books from the table top and replaced them with the potted plant, finding the books a home on the nearest shelf and arranging the draping leaves in a state of artful chaos. 

“No house should go without at least one plant,” Jehan said by way of explanation, making one final adjustment to the lay of a leaf before stepping back to admire his work. 

“Though I do wish he’d stop killing them off. I promised I’d find him something more durable – this seemed fitting. What do you think?” 

“Hmm?” Courfeyrac was still lost in the myriad of interesting objects in the room. The longer he looked, the more there was to find. It was like being in the room of requirement, he half expected to see the bust of a troll wearing a tiara. 

Jehan just shook his head and smiled. “Can I get you a drink?” he asked instead. “Combeferre has the most exquisite collection of tea.” 

“Go on then,” he flashed Jehan a smile. If Jehan didn’t think it rude to help themselves to Combeferre’s stash of tea, then Courfeyrac wasn’t going to object. 

= 

“…and ever since then he’s been afraid of wearing matching socks! – oh hello Combeferre,” Jehan snickered into his cup of tea. 

“Hello, people who don’t live here,” Combeferre said with a smile, pushing the door closed behind him and dropping his keys into a small clay pot by the door. 

“Hello,” Courfeyrac beamed, lifting his mug to hide as much of his face – and grin – as possible. Combeferre surveyed the pair of them, sitting on his couch; feet kicked up on the coffee table, Courfeyrac obviously still in his jogging gear, but seemed undeterred by it. “I’m going to take a quick shower,” he passed behind the couch, pausing to give Jehan a squeeze on the shoulder, “just don’t tell him the story about the ducks,” 

“Ducks? What story, what ducks?” 

But Jehan was gone, lost in a fit of giggles which prevented him to chocking out more than the odd word – which Courfeyrac, no matter how he strained his ears, couldn’t make sense of. 

= 

He ended up staying for dinner – it turned out Jehan was a wonderful, if slightly unorthodox cook – and hearing all about their eventful days at university, where they’d been roommates, but try as he might they both staunchly refused to tell Courfeyrac the duck story. 

“Yes, Joly’s always been a slightly strange one,” Jehan trailed off yet another anecdote – if Courfeyrac had thought himself a fountain of amusing and memorable tales, he’d found his match in these two. “Heart of gold though,” 

“Oh yes, he’s a dear one. I hear he and your friend – Bossuet, Lesgles? I couldn’t quite figure it out – are going out again tomorrow night.” Combeferre told him. 

“Again?” Courf, raised any eyebrow. That wasn’t fair. 

“They’re so sweet,” Jehan cooed, scooping more mushroom and blueberry noodles onto his plate (however wrong it sounded, it actually tasted delicious). “How about you, Courf - anyone in your life at the moment?” 

Courfeyrac almost chocked on a blueberry. He swallowed and coughed, and avoided making eye contact with Combeferre. 

“Not a present, unfortunately.” 

“I seriously doubt that,” Jehan pressed. 

“Nope.” Courfeyrac smiled, allowing himself to glance at Combeferre, startled to find him already staring at him. 

“Well we’ll have to set you up with someone,” Jehan beamed. 

“Ha, no. I’m actually…” was he allowed to explain the bet? He hadn’t clarified that – and didn’t want to risk jeopardising the bet on a technicality – never mind that he planned on getting around it on a technicality, he wasn’t a hypocrite, shh. “Taking a break from dating,” he finished instead. “New building, fresh start – you know?” he shrugged. 

Combeferre was still staring at him. 

He daren’t allow himself to wonder what that might mean.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “But we’re not talking in general terms anymore,” Courf whined dramatically. He slumped forwards onto the table and pouted. 
> 
> “This is Combeferre, he’s going to lose interest if I don’t ask him out – or at least explain why I’m not dating. I swear he already thinks I’m weird.”

“It’s an interesting dilemma,” Bahorel set his beer glass down on the table and pulled a face as he pondered for a moment, before replying with a definite, “No.” 

“Why not?” Courfeyrac demanded to know. 

“It’d be too easy,” 

“ _Easy?_ ” This month was proving anything but easy. 

“If you were allowed to tell them about the bet, then essentially you’d be able to schedule asking them on a date for a month’s time, which mean’s you’d still be, technically, asking them out. So, no.” 

Everyone fell silent for a second trying to follow the train of thought. 

“I would have to agree,” Enjolras said after a while, with an annoyingly smug smile. “No divulging the nature of the bet to potential dates.” 

“Sorry,” Grantaire chimed in with a shrug and an attitude that suggested he’d done his best to defend Courfeyrac, and that he hadn’t in fact being trying to stifle a laugh the entire time. 

“But we’re not talking in general terms anymore,” Courf whined dramatically. He slumped forwards onto the table and pouted. “This is Combeferre, he’s going to lose interest if I don’t ask him out – or at least explain why I’m not dating. I swear he already thinks I’m weird.” 

“Yeah, but that has nothing to do with the bet,” Bahorel smirked. 

Courfeyrac didn’t have the energy to shoot him a glare in return. 

“You didn’t see him yesterday, the way he stared at me….he must think I’m a freak. ‘New building, fresh start’, why did I say that? God it sounds dodgy. He probably thinks I murdered someone.” 

“Better than thinking you have crabs,” Marius suggested meekly, before turning beetroot red. Everyone turned to look at him, baffled. Sometimes the things that boy came out with mystified even Courfeyrac. 

He sat up to blink at Marius, who had taken to hiding behind his glass, cheeks still flushed, when he caught sight of the door – and more importantly, the scarf clad Combeferre who was stepping through it. 

He grabbed hold of the nearest arm – Bahorel’s – and gripped it frightfully. 

“He’s here,” he hissed. “No, no don’t all turn to look at once! Do you not have any tact – hi Combeferre,” 

Subtle as ever, his friends had turned in unison – snapping round to see the door and grin at Combeferre. Which wouldn’t have seemed creepy, not at all. 

“Hello,” Combeferre said as he neared their table – hidden away in the bar corner, despite that fact that the place was practically empty. The greeting was spoken through a half breathed laugh, accompanied by a small hesitant wave. “Sorry, am I late?” 

“Not at all, we haven’t started yet,” Enjolras said, standing up to greet him with an outstretched hand and a clap on the shoulder. 

Oh, the meeting. Right. He’d completely forgotten Combeferre had been invited along. 

Now that the shock had passed, he grinned up at Combeferre, fixating on the swift motions with which he removed his scarf and navy blue peacoat. 

Combeferre smiled at Courfeyrac as he slid into the booth seat after Enjolras. 

Courf gushed, feeling Bahorel poking him in the ribs and choosing to ignore him. 

“What’s on the agenda for this evening?” he asked, wasting no time in getting to the point of the matter. 

Courf resisted the urge to whisper, _you_. 

“I found your blog by the way, and I’m fascinated by your ideals, but your – um, execution, could use a little….improvement,” Combeferre continued carefully, picking each word with care. 

Courfeyrac was in love, there was no denying it now. He lifted his glass slowly to his lips, and sat in a daze as he listened to Combeferre discuss his opinions on their cause. He would have ruthlessly mocked Enjolras for the way he was adulating over Combeferre; if he hadn’t been swooning so helplessly himself. 

“Dear lord, you’re far gone, aren’t you,” Bahorel snickered in Courfeyrac’s ear. 

All he could muster in response was to nod unhappily and sigh; taking a deep drink and wishing the month would be over. 

=

By the time they were finally kicked out of the Musian,l long after last call, it was difficult to remember how their group had ever prospered without Combeferre. A patient foil to Enjolras’ haste, he was well versed and opinionated in social philosophy. He possessed insider knowledge of the most pressing issues of health care reform, and even better, promised to bring three new recruits with him next week. 

“I hope I didn’t speak out of turn,” 

“What?” Courfeyrac turned to blink at Combeferre. 

Illuminated by the street lamps, he stood in an orange glow which a sort of halo around his wind ruffled hair. Courfeyrac was no longer surprised by the fact that Combeferre seemed more attractive in each new setting he saw him in. But he was still intensely appreciative of it. 

He struggled to hold back the wow which wanted to roll of his tongue. 

“I think I may have become a little carried away,” 

“You were brilliant,” Courfeyrac gushed. “Honestly, they loved you.” 

“Really?” 

“Definitely.” 

He smiled and held Combeferre’s gaze. For a moment they just stood staring at each other. Until Combeferre dropped his eyes to his feet, then to the bus stop across the road, and the illuminated bill board advertising lynx deodorant. 

Wind rustled down the street, carrying leaves and litter against the curb and cars rushed past on the main road at the end of their street. They were the only ones left, waiting for a taxi which they should probably have called for earlier. They lived in the same building, it made sense to split the fare, and they weren’t exactly en route for anyone else. On paper it made sense. What Courfeyrac hadn’t factored in was just how much he wanted to jump Combeferre’s bones. Standing side by side, alone, on a street corner at dusk wasn’t doing anything to quell the longing. 

It was on the tip of his tongue, the urge to ask Combeferre to grab a coffee tomorrow. To ditch the taxi and go and find a bar that was still open. Invite him back to his apartment…it went against every fibre of his being _not_ asking. Which meant he wasn’t able to concentrate very well on the conversation at hand. 

Thankfully Combeferre didn’t seem to mind. He was probably exhausted, he had just come from a sixteen hour shift. 

“God I’m tired,” he said, stifling a yawn. 

Courfeyrac was overcome once again by the worrying fear that Combeferre could read his mind. Which was just ridiculous. 

“Cannot be dealing with work tomorrow,” 

“You’re working again?” 

“Just a short afternoon shift,” he nodded. 

“Then you should be asleep! You must be knackered,” 

Combeferre nodded again, folding his arms across chest, and yawning into his scarf. 

“You didn’t have to come this evening,” 

“I wanted to.” he scuffed his foot on the pavement, looking away from Courf, only stealing the slightest of glances. 

“I’m glad you did,” Courfeyrac smiled. 

“Me too.” With that he looked up properly and returned a smile which set Courfeyrac’s heart aflutter. 

This month was going to kill him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sunshine. Ultimate Frisbee. Party Shenanigans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was sunny today. That's my excuse for this chapter.

“He hasn’t asked you out yet, then?” Eponine stretched her arms above her head and arched her back off the grass. She reminded Courfeyrac of a cat. 

“No. Do you think I’d be here with you if he’d asked me out?” he plucked a handful of grass and threw it at her. She blew a raspberry in return. 

“Oh wow, what are you two, twelve?” groaned Gavroche, her fourteen (on the cusp of being fifteen) year old brother. 

He was stretched beside them, fake ray bans shielding his eyes with his hair meticulously styled to look like he’d just stepped off a surf board. It was disconcerting. He was supposed to be a hyper little ten year old. Courf still couldn’t quite believe how he’d missed the transformation. He had to give the kid kudos though; he really pulled off the whole surfer chic thing. Even if they were in a park in the middle of Paris, roughly three hundred miles from the nearest surfable waves. 

“You’re not allowed to date him? Who cares. Is this the 1800’s? Just fuck him and have done with it.” 

“Oi!” Eponine bolted up right and thawked him on the shoulder. “Not an appropriate attitude!” 

It had crossed Courfeyrac’s mind. Really how could it not? But it was Combeferre. Courf wanted more than sex. He wanted the dates and the awkward brush of hands. The tentative first kiss, the bolder second and the countless others that would follow. He wanted to make him pancakes, borrow his clothes, fall asleep watching foreign films (he pictured Combeferre loving eastern European cinema; he wanted to know if he was right). He wanted to hear about his day, to run his hands through those sandy brown locks. Meet his parents, go for weekends in the country. Oh god. He was so far gone it wasn’t even funny anymore. He wanted so much more than to just fuck him, and really fifteen days wasn’t so long to wait for that. He was almost half way. 

= 

He squinted into the sun, watching people cross his line of vision. Mothers with prams and sunshades covering their infants, joggers sweating in bout of late September sunshine, dogs and their owners and Combeferre and Jehan. 

Combeferre and Jehan. Abort, abort. 

He sat up, running a hand through his hair and hoping it wasn’t too full of grass. Both Eponine and Gavroche had an annoying habbit of flicking blades at him when he wasn’t looking. True enough a little shower of green fell into his lap as he worked his fingers through his hair. He elbowed Eponine in the ribs. Gavroche was unfortunately out of reach. 

“Hey?” 

This is where Courfeyrac really wished they’d invented a code word. 

“We need a code word.” 

“What?” 

“Combeferre’s here,” he was forced to hiss. 

Eponine propped herself up on her elbows and lifted a hand to her forehead. 

“Combeferre!” she shouted, waving them over. 

Courfeyrac wasn’t sure if he was mad of thankful. 

It shouldn’t have surprised him to see Combeferre here, the park was a few streets from their building and it was a glorious day. It was probably going to be one of the last sunny weekends of the year. It was clear that half of Paris had come out to enjoy the sunshine. Still he wished he’d dressed in more than knee length denim shorts and dip dyed racer back vest. He thought Combeferre was working today. Didn’t he usually work Saturdays? 

Combeferre glanced around looking for the course of his name, turning left and right before he spotted Eponine. He gave a half wave and nudged Jehan before picking his way across the grass towards them. 

“Fancy seeing you here,” Jehan beamed, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “We were going to play Frisbee if you’re interested?” he produced a purple ‘aerobie’ Frisbee from his shoulder bag and gestured with it. “Throwback to college, seeing as it’s such a nice day?” 

“Hells yeah!” Gavroche exclaimed, already scrambling to his feet. In that instant the suave almost fifteen year old self was swapped for the excited kid Courfeyrac knew and loved. 

“Joly and Bossuet over there. We were going to join them,” Jehan continued, glancing between Combeferre and Courfeyrac, somewhat amused by their shared inability to speak. Courf twisted surprised, sure enough Joly and Bossuet were wrapped around each other on a blanket across the park. How on earth had he not noticed them? He stood up and dusted the grass off his jeans, grinning at Combeferre. 

Today he was wearing faded blue jeans, turned up at the ankle over chukka boots and a striped crew shirt which showed off his frankly spectacular arms. His hair was swept back off his forehead, it looked blonder in the sunlight, and although his eyes were hidden behind aviator glasses Courf could imagine the slight crinkles that would accompany his smile. He wanted to cry with happiness. 

C’mon then, let’s play Frisbee!” 

He slung his arm around Gavroche’s shoulders and lead the foray towards Joly and Bossuet. 

= 

It didn’t take long before they called Enjolras, Grantaire and Bahorel to join them. Jehan’s roommate Feuilly was soon en route, planning to join them after his shift. Marius had also been invited but was unfortunately preoccupied by lunch with Cosette’s father. He had sounded terrified by the prospect on the phone. Courfeyrac could only laugh and wish him well. 

Soon they’d taken over the entire grassy area with their game, roping in strangers to play with them. No one could resist Courfeyrac’s affable charm and before they knew it they had more than thirty people all playing the same game. At one point they had three different Frisbees involved. 

Bossuet only managed to fall over once, and thankfully didn’t break anything. Although it provided Joly and he with an excuse to sit out and watch the rest of the game cuddled on the sidelines. 

They weren’t following any particular rules, despite Enjolras’ attempts to implement strategic moves and counterplays. But they had to put a stop to Bahorel’s annoying habbit of just picking up whoever had caught the Frisbee and running them into the goal area; which mainly involved collectively tacking him to the floor whenever the Frisbee passed close to him. 

By the time the sun disappeared behind the tree line they were grass stained and exhausted. Not to mention famished. 

Courf threw himself on the grass once the game was declared over, arms and legs splayed like a suntanned, freckled star fish. “Pizzas at mine?” he suggested, chest rising and falling as he struggled to catch his breath. 

“And Pimms,” Jehan agreed, extending a hand to tug Courfeyrac back to his feet. 

= 

A few other stragglers from the park joined them, including a media executive Eponine had attached herself to and his group of friends. Grantaire and Bahorel were dispatched on an alcohol run and when Combeferre produced a subwoofer, Courfeyrac declared in an official party and made a public invite on facebook. 

It was about time he christened his new apartment with a party. 

“Best idea, ever,” he told Jehan, looping an arm round his shoulder and pulling him close enough so that they could talk over the music. Happy summer tunes sang our through the apartment. Every single window had been thrown open to let in the cool summer night air; it was the best party Courf had thrown in a while. He was merrily drunk and surrounded by friends old and new, he couldn’t be happier. 

“I know!” Jehan smirked up, lifting his glass in manner of a toast. 

“Cheers!” Courf clinked his glass against Jehan’s in response. His other arm was still wrapped around Jehan’s shoulders, swaying both of them to the beat. 

“I meant what I said about setting you up, you know,” Jehan shouted after a while. 

Courf shook his head and slurped through his straw. “Not interested,” he shouted back over the bass line of Pitbull’s new song. The last thing he needed was Jehan setting him up with someone – he already worried that Combeferre didn’t think he was interested in him. 

“Sure you are! I’ve seen the way you look at him!” Jehan returned with a wicked smile. 

“Who?” 

Jehan gestured with drink to where Combeferre was propping the breakfast bar with Grantaire. 

“He likes you,” Jehan told him with a conspiratorial air. 

Courfeyrac continued slurping, not daring to believe his ears. He shook his head. 

Jehan danced for a beat, before standing on his tip toes to whisper in Courf’s ear, “I’ve never seen him look at someone the way he looks at you. Go and talk to him,” Jehan’s smile was mischievous but sincere. 

Courfeyrac’s breathing stopped. He fixed his eyes on Combeferre. Could it possibly be true?


	8. Chapter 8

The flat was overcrowded, the air hung heavy with sweat from the warm bodies pressed together dancing and laughing. A strong beat pumped from Combeferre’s sub-woofer, vibrating through the floor. Courfeyrac felt it pulse through his knee joints as he stood, frozen to the spot in the middle of his living room. He was engrossed by Combeferre. 

His back was pressed against the breakfast bar, his hand curled around the neck of a beer bottle. Every time he lifted it to take a drink the muscles of his arms flexed; it was magical to watch. The spot lights nestled into the kitchen ceiling had been dimmed, but they still shone around him, creating a slight halo as it backlight his loose strands of hair. Courfeyrac drained his drink working up the courage to go and talk to him. He tried to tell himself that it was the bet making him hesitate. But this was a party and dancing was hardly dating, so the excuse didn’t hold up. The truth was he was nervous. He’d never been forced to like someone from afar before; never had the opportunity to build up an anxiety like this. What if he said something stupid, what it Jehan was wrong, what if, what if, what if…. 

He lifted his glass back to his lips only to find that it was empty. Tipping it back, he tried in vain to catch the very last drop which stubbornly clung to the sides of the glass. Well at least he now had a viable excuse for going to the kitchen. 

Nervousness didn’t suit Courfeyrac, in three paces he’d already ruffled and re-ruffled his hair, adjusted his shirt, tugged at the waistband of his pants and tried again to drink the very last drop of drink. He felt like Marius, and he didn’t like it. Not one bit. 

The breakfast bar loomed, he had only to weave around the last few people, when – out of nowhere – Bahorel barrelled into him and swept him away towards the alcove in a messy waltz. 

“Where do you think you’re going? Planning to dance with Sexy Neighbour, eh?” he grinned at Courfeyrac. “Not forgotten the bet have you?” 

“I was going to talk to him, you oaf! And last I checked that wasn’t against the rules!” 

“Nope, but you know what they say,” 

Courfeyrac wrestled his hands free to throw them in the air. No he didn’t know what they said, “Enlighten me,” 

“Dancing is a slippery slope to dating,” 

That didn’t even make any sense. “But _we’re_ dancing!” 

Bahorel gave another smirk and swooped down to plant a horrible slobbery kiss on Courfeyrac’s cheek. 

He retaliated by grimacing and shoving Bahorel away from him. He was now determined to find Combeferre and talk to him and dance with him, if Combeferre was inclined to dance. Courfeyrac couldn’t really picture him dancing, ‘dad dancing’ potentially, but whatever the case he just need to see him. 

However, he’d barely made it more than a few steps away from Bahorel when Enjolras appeared before him, bearing two drinks and an awfully wry smile. He handed Courfeyrac a drink and gently steered him towards the windows. 

The song changed, flooding the apartment with an upbeat string of melodic notes and rhythmic clapping. 

“I just bumped into Feuilly,” Enjolras informed him, voiced raised over the music. 

It took a beat for the name to align with a person – ah yes, Jehan’s roommate, one of Combeferre’s promised recruits. 

“He seems eager to attend this week’s meeting,” 

“That’s great!” Courfeyrac replied, glancing over his shoulder to try and spot Combeferre. The crowds had rearranged themselves and he no longer had a clear view to the breakfast bar. It looked like someone was standing on his sofa – he made to move and sort them out, but a nod from Enjolras had Bahorel taking care of it. Damn them and their well-oiled plan to keep him separated from Combeferre. Because there was no mistaking this for what it was. 

Even Grantaire had been roped in on it. 

“I thought you were on my side,” Courfeyrac whined, as Grantaire tugged him away from the kitchen. 

Grantaire just shrugged. “Enjolras made a compelling argument,” 

“You mean he promised sex.” 

“Yup,” Grantaire beamed. 

“But this isn’t even against the rules of the bet.” He slumped against the wall and watched as Combeferre began chatting to one of Courfeyrac’s facebook friends. He vaguely recognised him as being from one of the festivals last summer, or possibly that training course with work – either way they weren’t close enough for Courf to go and warn him away from Combeferre. And now Combeferre was going to hook up with Unknown Acquaintance and everything was so unfair. 

“This isn’t about the bet anymore,” Bahorel joined him against the wall. “This is just funny now.” 

“It’s really not,” Courfeyrac exhaled with a sad sigh. He folded his arms across his chest and pouted at Bahorel, who just chuckled. 

Despite his best efforts, Courfeyrac’s so-called friends managed to keep his separated from Combeferre for the rest of the night. By the time things began to wind down around 3am, he was nowhere to be seen. 

= 

Courfeyrac didn’t stay miserable for long though. It wasn’t in his nature. Onwards and upwards, as it were. Get even and move on. When Bahorel woke, he would be less an eyebrow. And as Grantaire rolled off the sofa in search of the bathroom, he found Enjolras being tugged along behind him. Dazed, confused, hungover and in desperate need of a piss, he glanced down to find that his wrist had been tied to Enjolras’ in an elaborate melee of knots. 

“Morning,” Courfeyrac chuckled. He was seated crossed legged atop the breakfast bar, munching on a bowl of cereal and watching the scene unfold with delight. 

Grantaire mumbled a string of colourful curse words as he scrabbled at the knot. He tried to wrench himself free, but only managed to pull Enjolras further towards the edge of the sofa until he fell off, hitting the floor with a bump. 

“-what?” Enjolras blinked around shocked and scrambling to his knees. He saw the knot and then Grantaire, and then looked up at Courfeyrac who was by then practically rolling around with laughter. 

“-fuck’s sake,” Grantaire hopped up and down and tugged at the string. “I’m going to piss on your floor, Courf – you evil little genius,” 

Courfeyrac continued to laugh. 

“Calm down!” Enjolras tugged back at the string. He hauled the knots back towards himself, clearly assuming that he’d succeed where Grantaire had failed. “Scissors,” he announced giving up. “We need scissors. Courfeyrac where are your scissors?” 

Courfeyrac shrugged and slurped on a spoonful of coco puffs. 

“I’m going to kill you.” Grantaire promised, darting towards the kitchen in a series of desperate dancing, hopping motions. Enjolras had no choice but to stumble behind. 

They threw open every drawer but couldn’t find any scissors. Which wasn’t surprising, as Courf had hidden his only pair on top of the fridge. 

“Fuck this,” Grantaire slammed a drawer shut and grabbed Enjolras’ hand, dragging him towards the bathroom. 

“Oi, hey.” Enjolras initially resisted but eventually consented to be tugged along. 

“The police won’t find your body, Courf!” Grantaire promised before slamming the bathroom shut. Courfeyrac couldn’t reply even if he’d wanted to. His giggles had erupted into full stomach shaking laughter and he was fighting to even breathe. 

“Hmm? What’s going on?” Bahorel stirred on this couch, stretching his arms above his head and yawning. He sat up and scratched at his head. His face looked lopsided with only one eyebrow. 

Courfeyrac collapsed forwards, burying his head in his arms unable to control his laughter anymore. 

= 

The price for his practical jokes was that the three of them refused to help tidy up. Not that they would have been much help anyway. 

Probably. 

They party had been unimaginably messy though. Perhaps he should have pranked them _after_ tidying up…By the time his flat was reasonably tidy it was growing dark outside. 

Courfeyrac slumped onto his sofa and kicked his feet up onto the coffee table. All at once exhausted and bored. He contemplated watching a film, but he hadn’t actually been outside all day and already he was growing restless. On impulse he grabbed a jacket and his phone and headed out, shooting a glance Combeferre’s closed door and he crossed the landing. 

He wandered with no particular destination in mind; more than happy just to follow his feet and breathe in the crisp autumnal air. He ran into a couple of friends from his old building whom he hadn’t seen since the move. They chatted amicably for perhaps longer than considered usual on a street corner, and he left with a promise to catch up properly over a coffee sometime. 

With the thought of coffee on his mind, it wasn’t surprising that he found himself walking past his favourite bakery-cum-coffee shop. It was a quaint little establishment, set on the riverfront, which Grantaire had introduced him to a few years ago. The walls were a mixture of exposed stone, old fashioned wood and beige plaster and they were decorated with books and old prints. It was an unusual mixture of old charm and modern minimalism, which shouldn’t have worked, but really did. Courfeyrac decided it was the sort of place Combeferre would love. Had he been allowed, Courfeyrac would have already invited him to coffee here. As soon as the month was up, he was making it a date. 

Only fourteen days to go.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Courfeyrac propped his front door open with the Combeferre’s speakers and plugged them into the wall, filling the apartment, and landing, with soft summery tunes. Combined with the copious amount of vanilla he planned to pour into the cupcake mix, there would be no possible way for Combeferre to avoid him forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the delay between chapters! I will try and get back to posting more regularly again :) (I sometimes post previews / snippets on my [tumblr ](http://trenchcoatsandtimetravel.tumblr.com/)before the full chapter makes it over here, so you can check those out if you're interested!)

Courfeyrac didn’t meet Combeferre on the stairs the next morning, or when he ventured down the laundry room that evening – despite the fact that Monday evening was usually laundry day for Combeferre too. When Tuesday rolled around and Courfeyrac still hadn’t seen him, he began to think that maybe Combeferre was avoiding him. Though he couldn’t think why. 

= 

Dropping the shopping bags on the breakfast bar, Courfeyrac kicked off his shoes and loosed his tie. He undid the top few buttons and rolled up his shirt sleeves. He didn’t bother changing from his suit trousers, as Eponine had pointed out on many occasions they did wonderful things for his ass, and he quite liked wearing them. He did however string the hopelessly frilly, flower patterned apron Grantaire had bought him as a joke last Christmas round his waist. Cupcakes could get messy, there was no point ruining a pair of trousers just because he wanted to seduce Combeferre. Unfortunately it was the only apron he had. 

He propped his front door open with the Combeferre’s speakers and plugged them into the wall, filling the apartment, and landing, with soft summery tunes. Combined with the copious amount of vanilla he planned to pour into the cupcake mix, there would be no possible way for Combeferre to avoid him forever. That was, if he was avoiding him at all. 

Which he probably wasn’t, Courfeyrac was probably overthinking this whole thing. He really wasn’t very good at not being allowed to date; it left too much room for paranoia and worrying. He pushed the thoughts from his mind and focused on the music, and the cake mix. He sashayed from cupboard to cupboard to collect the ingredients, swayed his hips as he measured them out, used the whisk as a microphone, and generally forgot that he’d propped his door open. 

He was scooping the last of the mixture into the cupcake cases and merrily singing along when he heard a hesitant knock on the door, followed by a louder throat clearing. Courfeyrac stood up and span round, wiping his hands on the over-frilly apron. Combeferre was standing in the doorway, looking a little dazed. 

“Hello,” Courfeyrac supplied with a grin when Combeferre failed to say anything. 

“Nice…apron,” he said eventually. 

Courfeyrac dusted it down with a laugh. “Didn’t want to ruin my trousers,” he grinned, picking up the tray of cupcakes and sliding them into the oven. 

Combeferre just nodded. 

Courfeyrac set the timer to fifteen minutes before turning back to Combeferre, it wasn’t like him to be this ineloquent. He gave his hands a final dusting and untied the apron, folding it over the counter. The trousers were obviously having the desired effect; he’d never seen Combeferre this speechless. 

Courfeyrac grinned and bounced on the balls of his feet. Combeferre was still standing a little dazed in the doorway. His hair was tufted at odd angles, as was customary after he’d finished a long shift. He clearly spent a lot of time running his hands through it repeatedly. Courfeyrac was beginning to notice he did so whenever he had to make a decision. He couldn’t help but wonder what it would feel like to have his hands in that hair, among the soft sandy brown tufts. He caught himself staring and coughed, pulling himself from the dangerous thoughts. 

Straightening his shirt. Courfeyrac stepped forwards. 

“Thanks for letting us borrow the speakers,” he said, stooping down to unplug them. Their hands brushed as Courfeyac handed them over. 

“Anytime,” Combeferre smiled. He shifted the weight in his arms, and hesitated for a beat. It looked like he might say something else, but he disappointed Courfeyrac by nodding towards his apartment and slipping from the doorway. 

Courfeyrac wasn’t about to let him get away that easily though. He grabbed the bowl of cake mixture from the counter, and followed Combeferre across the hallway, crossing the threshold before Combeferre had a chance to unload the speakers and close it. 

“Cake mix?” he asked, proffering the bowl to Combeferre and sinking into the couch cushions. He ignored the stunned expression on Combeferre’s face and proceeded to swipe his finger around the lingering, heavily vanilla infused batter. 

“At least use a spoon,” Combeferre relented. 

“Not going to warn me that raw cake mix will give me salmonella and kill me?” 

“That would be Joly’s department,” Combeferre passed a spoon to Courfeyrac. “And really when it tastes this good, the threat of salmonella’s almost worth it,” he smiled, and then frowned. “How much vanilla did you put in here?” 

“ah lo’,” Courfeyrac replied around the spoon in his mouth. 

Combeferre laughed at him. 

= 

They were so engrossed in eating the cake mix, that they almost forgot about the actual cakes. It took them longer than it should have to register than the annoying high pitched beeping was coming from Courfeyrac’s oven. 

“Oh jesus,” Courfeyrac darted off the couch, almost falling flat on his face, saved only by staggering forwards in a few ungainly steps as he fought for balance. He could hear Combeferre beside himself with laughter, a beautiful infectious sound that Courfeyrac wanted to savour, and would have if he wasn’t fearing for the life of his cupcakes. 

The oven blew hot air in his face as he opened the door. It flushed his cheeks and forced him to take a few steps back, fishing the tray of cupcakes from the oven with the very tips of his oven-gloved fingers. 

To his enormous relief, they weren't quite burnt. More brown than golden brown, but still very much edible. Up-ending them onto a plate, he sprinkled them with icing sugar and kicked the oven door closed with his foot. 

“Not burnt!” he shouted, which was met with a whoop of congratulations from Combeferre. 

Flicking the oven off with a flourish, Courfeyrac grabbed the plate of cupcakes and was half way out the door when he had a better idea. He draped a tea towel of his arm, like a waiter, and elevated the plate of cakes onto the palm of his hand, holding it high above his head. He grabbed one for good measure and stuffed it in his mouth without ceremony, which was a terrible idea – because they’d _just_ been taken out of the oven. 

Coughing against the heat that seared the inside of his mouth, he paused on the landing and tried his hardest not to drop the rest of the cakes. 

“What are you doing?” Jehan paused on the stairs and stared at Courfeyrac. 

Courfeyrac blinked his eyes open, but left his mouth wide, trying to suck in cool air to calm his burning tongue. 

“Cakes,” he chocked, he offered the tray to Jehan who surveyed them suspiciously. “They’re good, just hot,” Courfeyrac assured him. 

Jehan ignored the tray of cakes and glanced instead at Combeferre’s open door. He grabbed Courfeyrac by the elbow of his tea-towel draped arm, and pulled him across the landing. 

“What are you doing?” he repeated himself. 

Courfeyrac didn’t follow, he hoped his gormless expression told Jehan as much. 

“It’s cruel,” 

Courfeyrac glanced at his plate of cakes. Okay so they weren’t perfect, but he had no idea how they could be considered in anyway cruel. 

“He likes you, Courfeyrac. He really likes you.” 

“So you said.” Courfeyrac was still having a little trouble believing it. 

“Yeah,” Jehan leant back and folded his arms across his chest. “And then you proceeded to ignore him for the rest of the evening. Alright, if you’re not interested that’s fine. But this,” he gestured to the cakes and scowled. “Flirting, leading him on, what, is this a game to you?” 

“What?” Courfeyrac spluttered. 

“It’s malicious, and I’m not going to stand back and watch you hurt him like this.” 

“No, No!” Courfeyrac balanced the cakes on the banister so that he could use his hands to talk. He waved frantically and clapped Jehan on the arm. “It’s not like that, I promise you. It’s…” 

Jehan raised his eyebrows, waiting. 

“Complicated,” Courfeyrac settled on. Could he tell Jehan about the bet? The ruling had been not to tell potential datees…but how would Jehan knowing be any different than Grantaire and Bahorel and co. knowing? 

Jehan gave him a contemptuous look. 

Screw it. Courfeyrac had to tell Jehan. 

“I lost a bet,” he started. At this point he honestly didn’t care what the others would say. He was too close to losing Combeferre forever, and honestly a life without forfeit karaoke or sexual tension bingo would be nothing compared to a life without Combeferre.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Courfeyrac was beginning to wish he’d never told Jehan about the bet. He had been hoping that, as Combeferre’s best friend, he might be able with matters. He began to fear that Jehan was going to be just as bad as his own so-called ‘friends’.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh! I'm so sorry it's been so long between updates, and my apologies that this chapter isn't particularly long, but I figured it was better than nothing! 
> 
> Also, Kim has started writing a wonderful companion piece to this; [Love at First Collision](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1776337/chapters/3803857), told from Combeferre's point of view, so you should definitely go a read that whilst waiting for the next update :D

“It’s not funny,” Courfeyrac moaned, as Jehan set about laughing. He scowled, watching Jehan turn away to wipe away a tear that was leaking from the corner of his eye. 

“No, you’re right,” he consented, breathless. He turned back to Courfeyrac and composed himself, holding a straight face for exactly 0.02 of a millisecond before crumbling into giggles, “it’s hilarious!” 

Courfeyrac was beginning to wish he’d never told Jehan about the bet. He had been hoping that, as Combeferre’s best friend, he might be able with matters. He began to fear that Jehan was going to be just as bad as his own so-called ‘friends’. 

“How long have you got left?” 

“Twelve days.” How was there still that long to go? Why was this month taking forever? 

“And you can’t ask him out?” Jehan clarified. 

“No! So I’ve been trying to get _him_ to ask me out,” Courfeyrac lowered his voice, conscious that Combeferre’s front door was still wide open. “Evidently it hasn’t been working.” 

“That’s not your fault.” Jehan sounded earnest, all traces of the giggles long gone. “He, um,” he, too, glanced over his shoulder before dragging Courfeyrac further across the landing. The cakes were left poised precariously on the bannister. “He had a bad breakup recently. The douchebag lead him on for far too long, and then had the audacity to say it didn’t mean anything. He doesn’t trust his judgement just now.” 

“Then you have to tell him,” Courfeyrac implored, hands finding Jehan’s forearms and gripping tightly. “I can’t explain the bet to him, but you could?” 

Jehan just shook his head. Courfeyrac’s shoulders dropped. 

“Nope. You got yourself into this mess, you have to get yourself out of it,” Jehan smirked. 

“Why did I think you’d be any help?” he muttered under his breath, tipping his head backwards and exhaling deeply. He was just going to have to wait the month out, somehow, and hope that by some miracle Combeferre wouldn’t have given up on him by then. 

“Why should I be? For all I know you could be another douchebag in the making,” 

Courfeyrac raised an eyebrow; he thought he’d made a better first impression than that. 

“I’ll warrant you don’t _seem_ the type to break his heart,” Jehan studied him for the moment, “and I have to admit I do quite like you, and your friends.” 

Courfeyrac stared forlornly at Combeferre’s door, unable to bring himself to look at Jehan, not again daring to hope that he might help. 

“He wants to ask you out,” Jehan said quietly, nodding when Courfeyrac shot him a questioning look. “We just have to somehow tip him over the edge, push him past the possibility of thinking himself out of it.” 

“That’s what I’ve been trying to do!” Courfeyrac exhaled in a loud whisper, accompanied by a frustrated wave of his hand. 

Jehan clapped a hand on his shoulder and gave him a pitying look. “We’ll think of something. Now get back to him before the cakes get cold,” he gave Courfeyrac a shove across the landing, following it up with a firm slap to Courfeyrac’s ass. 

Courfeyrac stifled a yelp and shot Jehan a stunned look. Jehan was already halfway down the stairs. 

“You not coming in?” 

“I was never here,” Jehan replied waving his hands in front of his face and smiling mischievously. With that, he disappeared round the bend of the stairwell, leaving Courfeyrac a little lost for words on the landing. 

= 

The sunny weather didn’t last. On Thursday the heavens opened and rain lashed against the pavements. Courfeyrac picked up his pace to a light jog, his feet splashing in the growing puddles and splattering specks of rain water up his calves. His patent work shoes were keeping the rain off his toes, but they did nothing against the water which sloshed over his ankles; they were going to be ruined, but it was going to be worth it. 

The two coffee cups in hands wobbles slightly as he ran, coffee seeping up through the lids ever so slightly. He hadn’t realised the hospital was this far away, he probably should have taken a taxi. 

It had been Jehan’s idea. If Courfeyrac couldn’t ask Combeferre out on a date, why not take the date to him? He would be walking from his shift to meeting at the Musain, and he took his coffee with milk and sugar, and a shot of hazelnut if he was feeling indulgent. Which was why Courfeyrac found himself standing under the porch of the A&E holding two cups of coffee. His own was a caramel macchiato with extra cream, well if he was letting Combeferre be indulgent, why shouldn’t he? 

In hindsight, he probably should have warned Combeferre rather than just jumping out at him as he exited the hospital. Poor fellow looked like he had the living daylights scared out of him as Courfeyrac stepping in front of him and beamed a hello. The fact that Coureyrac looked like a drowned rat, what with his hair plastered to his head and his shirt almost see through from the rain, probably didn’t help. He definitely picked the wrong day to forget a jacket. Although, judging from the way Combeferre’s gaze was lingering on his chest, maybe that hadn’t been such a bad idea. He’d obviously underestimated the ‘Mr Darcy Drowned Rat’ look. 

“Hi,” he said again, holding out the coffee cup towards Combeferre. “I thought we could walk to the meeting together?” 

“Right. Yes. Absolutely. Thank you.” Combeferre took the coffee cup and stared at it for a little while before remembering to actually take a drink from it. 

“I hope I got the order right,” Courfeyrac hid behind his own paper cup as he gauged Combeferre’s reaction. The delighted surprise which lit up his eyes behind his glasses was enough to reassure Courfeyrac that Jehan hadn’t lied to him. 

“How did you…?” 

“As much as I’d love to take credit…Jehan told me,” he grinned. “Shall we?” 

“Hold on, I think I have an umbrella,” 

Courfeyrac caught the cup which Combeferre thrust at him, so that he could dig around in his backpack in search of a brolley. 

He produced a sleek black collapsible umbrella and brandished it triumphantly. 

It was just about big enough or both of them to huddle under, if they walked shoulder to shoulder and didn’t mind their other shoulders getting rained on. Courfeyrac didn’t mind in the slightest. Every time their shoulders brushed an electric spark warmed his chest and by the time they reached the Musain he was beaming from ear to ear.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay between chapters! Life kind of got in the way. I'll try and make sure I update more frequently, but I can't make any promises I'm afraid. We're almost there, though :)  
> As always, thanks for [Kim](http://combeferree.tumblr.com/) for sanity checking my drafts. AND if you haven't seen it yet, you so totally go and check out the companion piece she's writing from Combeferre's pov: [Love at First Collision](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1776337/chapters/3803857). It's wonderful :)

“Don’t know what you’re so happy about,” Grantaire grumbled as he pushed passed the pair of them into the shop. He was wrapped in a sodden green hoody, his face as miserable as the weather. 

The Musain stank of stale rain. The windows were fogged up from the stark difference in temperature, and there were little pools of water underneath abandoned umbrellas. 

Ignoring the stuffiness, Courfeyrac wove across the room to the usual back booth with Combeferre following close behind. He hadn’t seen the Musain this busy in months; caught out shoppers and commuters were evidently hiding out until the rain died down a little. Despite the crowds, though, Enjolras had still managed to secure the largest booth in the establishment, as well as an assortment of extra chairs. 

There were a couple of new faces squished around the table, which both lit up relieved at the sight of Combeferre. Courfeyrac recognised the ginger haired guy sat next to Jehan from the house party, but couldn’t remember his name. Evidently the other newcomer was Joly, judging from the way he and Bossuet were holding hands. 

"Hey everyone,” Courf beamed, dropping onto a vacant stool. 

“Did you _swim_ here?” Bahorel gawked. 

Courfeyrac had a snarky retort ready on the tip of his tongue, but as soon as he turned to Bahorel to deliver it, he caught sight of the lonely eyebrow and dissolved into a fit of giggles instead. 

“That’s rich coming you, monobrow,” he chuckled. 

Bahorel scowled, arching his would-be-eyebrow in annoyance, which only increased Courfeyrac’s cause for laughter. 

“Of all the eyebrow jokes in all the world,” Bahorel sighed, “and you go for that one. It’s not even what a monobrow means,” 

Courfeyrac just continue to snicker. 

“I mean if you’re going to shave off a man’s eyebrow, at least have the decency to make good puns about it. Seriously? Nothing?... Prick.” He muttered into his glass. 

Courfeyrac plucked a drink the tray in the middle of the table and tried to stifle his laughter by taking a sip, but all he succeeded in doing was blowing bubbles up his nose. 

Thankfully Combeferre was too busy catching up with Enjolras to notice. Courfeyrac hastily wiped the drink from around his mouth, catching Jehan’s exasperated gaze from across the table. 

“Alright, let’s bring this meeting to order,” Enjolras spoke up, trying to cut through the low level of chatter around the table. “It’s great to see so many new faces; you are all very welcome,” 

“Hear, Hear!” Courfeyrac raised his glass and grinned, ignoring the scowl Enjolras threw his way. 

He was buzzing from the walk over with Combeferre, riding on an emotional high which wasn’t about to be restrained by Enjolras’ scowls. Not even the slight kick he received under the table did anything to dull his mood. 

= 

The meeting dragged on though, and soon Courfeyrac’s cheerfulness strayed into fidgeting. He wanted to be alone with Combeferre, continuing their conversation from the way over. He couldn’t even remember what it had been about, but honestly he felt he could listen to Combeferre read the phone book and be enraptured. Sadly, he was keeping to himself this meeting, not really volunteering any ideas like he had last time. If Courfeyrac had to put his finger on it he’d say Combeferre looked distracted. 

It didn’t help that Courfeyrac’s shirt was beginning to dry in an odd, almost starched manner, the material stiffening from the rain water and beginning to itch at his collar. He wanted nothing more than strip off and dive under the shower…and have a certain someone join him in that shower… 

“Courfeyrac?” Enjolras sounded annoyed. 

He blinked, brought back to the room with a dizzying suddenness. He hoped his cheeks weren’t turning too red. 

“Yes…?” he hazarded slowly. He panned his gaze around the circle trying to measure the correct tone for his response. 

“Great. That’s sorted then.” Enjolras was smiling but his manner was cold. He knew full well that Courfeyrac hadn’t been listening to a word he’s said, and Courfeyrac had an uneasy feeling that he’d just volunteered himself for something unsavoury. Enjolras might look like an angel, but he could be downright mean when he wanted to be. 

= 

“What did I sign myself up for?” Courfeyrac tried to wheedle from Grantaire later, but Grantaire was still in a foul mood and wouldn’t be pressed for details. 

“Bahorel?” Courfeyrac whined, “Please?” 

But apparently asking favours off recently de-eyebrowed friends wasn’t a good idea either. 

Combeferre was his last hope. And Combeferre just laughed at him. It wasn’t a malicious laugh thankfully, more sympathetic. 

“You really weren’t paying attention were you?” 

Courfeyrac hated to admit it. It wasn’t like him to drift off so completely during a meeting. He might hop around from idea to idea, with an attention span somewhat akin to a goldfish – if he’d been at school now he was fairly certain he’d be diagnosed with some form of ADHD – but he always managed to retain some level of peripheral focus, especially with things he was interested in. 

He blamed it on the sheer amount of pent up sexual frustration. Seriously, what did his friends think was going to happen? 

He shook his head, pulling himself back to the conversation before his thoughts could get lost in the shower with Combeferre again. 

“Flyering on Saturday morning,” Combeferre told him with a warm smile as they climbed the stairs to their apartments. 

“Oh,” in the scheme of things that wasn’t so bad. 

“Enjolras apparently wants to try out some different approaches,” 

“Right,” Courfeyrac agreed, it was coming back to him now. Enjolras and he had been emailing back and forth all week. Following the recent fines imposed on protestors, it was becoming even harder to stir up support. Courfeyrac had suggested trying to build a larger online base before they mounted their next rally, hence flyering. They were supposed to be organising some form of twitter campaign too, which he had to assume other people had taken charge of during the meeting. Christ, had he really blanked out that much? 

He pressed his thumb and forefinger into his eyes, trying to push down the feeling of guilt. Enjolras had been counting on him to help explain the idea, no wonder he’d sounded so annoyed. 

“Are you alright?” Combeferre asked, with a layer of genuine concern in his voice. Courfeyrac would have found it touching if it didn’t make things ten times worse. 

“Yeah, fine,” he smiled, looking up at Combeferre. His eyes lingered for a little too long on Combeferre’s face, noting the dark circles under his eyes and the way his smile managed to shine through so brightly despite his obvious tiredness. He traced down to Combeferre’s lips, slightly chapped and parted just so, as if he might say something else. He didn’t. Courfeyrac panned across Combeferre’s shoulders, tracking the strong arms over which his pea coat was draped, to his hands. They were fidgeting with his keys. Delaying. 

Courfeyrac almost couldn’t stand it. He had to wrench himself away to his own apartment, where he kicked off his shoes and scrambled into bed, hauling the duvet up around his ears and burrowing down into the comfort of it. This wasn’t funny anymore. This was painful. 

Ten days to go. 

He needed a new plan. He wasn’t going to survive ten more days of this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, go listen to this wonderful [mix](http://8tracks.com/donnellycious/the-guy-next-door) by donnellycious!! It's brilliant :)


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Courfeyrac hesitated. The static from the phone line buzzed between them. Coughing, chatting, beeping and ringing hummed from Enjolras’ end. In Courfeyrac’s office you could hear a pin drop. He fancied you could hear his heart beat as it thumped away in his chest.
> 
> It was one thing to think it, quite another to say it out loud...

“Sorry for yesterday,” Courfeyrac tipped back in his chair and twirled the phone cord between his fingers. 

“You were a little distant,” Enjolras agreed. His voice was tinny though the phone, and surrounded by the buzz of a busy office floor. Courfeyrac knew he was unbelievably lucky to have an office of his own. 

“Well it’s your fault. This stupid bet; how am I supposed to think straight?” 

“And whose fault is the bet?” Enjolras teased. 

Courfeyrac could hear him typing away in the background. No doubt the phone was trapped between his cheek and shoulder; their conversation a background task whilst he typed up a report. 

Courfeyrac swung his chair round to face the window. There wasn’t much of a view, the building next to them was too tall, but if he looked up he could see a thin strip of sky overhead. Thankfully the rain from yesterday hadn’t persisted but summer was already a faint memory. 

“If I’d known I was going to meet Combeferre I never would have agreed to it,” 

“Agreed to it? Courf it was your idea,” Enjolras laughed. 

“Yeah, well,” he picked at a stray thread on his trousers miserably, feeling as overcast as the hazy grey sky. 

“You really like him don’t you?” 

Courfeyrac hesitated. The static from the phone line buzzed between them. Coughing, chatting, beeping and ringing hummed from Enjolras’ end. In Courfeyrac’s office you could hear a pin drop. He fancied you could hear his heart beat as it thumped away in his chest. 

It was one thing to think it, quite another to say it out loud. 

“I think I love him.” Courfeyrac admitted to Enjolras. 

Enjolras was quiet for a good while. He’d stopped typing. 

At last he replied, voice tinged with a genuine regret, “a bet’s a bet,” 

“I know,” Courfeyrac sighed. He might have hoped that his admission would be grounds enough to call it all off, but Enjolras had more integrity than that; and he expected others to show the same. 

“There can’t be long left…” 

“Nine days, 13 hours and 21 minutes.” 

“That’s an accurate count.” 

“Tell me about it. I’m going mad here, Enjolras. I ran into him on the stairs this morning and I was rendered speechless. I’m never speechless! I always have _something_ to say, but I couldn’t even manage a good morning. My throat felt dry and I was too scared that if I tried to say anything I’d end up blurting out that I love him and scare him off forever.” 

Now that he’d said it once he couldn’t stop. He wanted to shout it from the rooftop and proclaim it to the world, bake it into cupcakes, paint it twenty feet tall onto the side of a building, sing it from the top of the Eiffel Tower; “I love Combeferre!” 

“But you can’t tell something you love them before your first date,” he continued. “You can’t _even_ tell them on the second. And I’m so far away from any of that, and, oh,” he wanted to flop onto the desk and slowly bash his head against the keyboard. But his office door was open, anyone could walk past, and he wasn’t about to give into his pathetic miserable mood somewhere so public. 

“Why can’t you?” 

“Why can’t what?” 

“I told Grantaire I loved him before we started dating,” 

“Yes, but you’re different. You two were pining after each other for years. The entire _universe_ knew you two were in love with each other before you started dating. There were extra-terrestrials placing bets on when one of you would pluck up the courage to let the other know. I lost 30,000 space dollars to a Plutonian because you lost your nerve on Valentine ’s Day.” 

Enjolras didn’t need to say anything for Courfeyrac to know that he had an eyebrow raised and lips pursed with a quickly evaporating patience. 

“You’re _Enjolras and Grantaire_. You’re like the exception that makes the rule,” Courfeyrac sighed. 

“I don’t think we are.” Enjolras replied slowly. “Sometimes I think you’re right, that I don’t know the first thing about relationships,” 

“Hey,” Courfeyrac sat up, suddenly alert. “a, that’s not what I said – I said you didn’t know how to flirt which you don’t but we’re not having that argument again that’s what got us into this mess,” he said all very quickly without taking a breath, “and b, you two have been together for over a year now, things are good, aren’t they?” 

“I don’t know,” Enjolras hesitated. “They’re great, it’s just,” he trailed off. 

Courfeyrac waited, it was ever so rare for Enjolras to talk about anything like this; Courfeyrac wasn’t about to push him. 

“It’s nothing. I’m just overthinking everything,” 

“Enjolras,” Courfeyrac started, wanting to assure Enjolras that he could tell him anything, but a movement down the corridor stilled him. Shadows stirred, and then he heard the unmistakeable voice of M. Danvers. 

Swearing under his breath, Courfeyrac dropped the phone into the crook of his neck and shuffled some papers around on his desk trying to look busy. 

“Yes, so if we could expedite the delivery on those visas, that would be excellent,” he invented, ignoring the way Enjolras had begun to snicker on the other end of the phone. He shot M. Danvers a half wave and mouthed a good morning. “Hmm, ideally we’ll need them by next Thursday, uh huh, yeah,” 

He waited until his boss had definitely disappeared round the corner, before slumping back into his chair and running and hand through his hair. Enjolras was still trying to stifle his laughter. 

“Not funny,” Courfeyrac insisted. 

Enjolras’ tailing laughs begged to differ. “I should probably get back to work,” he said, leaving no room for returning to their previous conversation. 

“Me too,” Courfeyrac groaned, twisting his chair from side to side. “What time are we flyering Saturday?” 

“8am sharp.” 

“You do realise that normal people won’t leave their houses until around 10, yeah?” 

Enjolras stoically ignored him. “You’re still alright to print the flyers for us, yes?” 

That was news to Courfeyrac. “What? No.” 

“Well I can’t print them; our machine has a vendetta against me.” 

“It does not, it’s a printer, Enjolras, it can’t hold vendettas,” 

“Usually, I’d be inclined to agree, but this morning it ate my document. An original copy, mind, the _only_ original copy. I was trying to take a scan, and it ate it. Jammed up the machine and ripped it into irredeemable pieces. I now have to track down the client who is somewhere near Lyon at the moment and get a new copy. How is that not holding a vendetta?” 

“Oh god, you sound like Bossuet, but more grumpy. Fine. How many copies?” 

“Ten thousand?” Enjolras asked in all seriousness. Courfeyrac waited for him to hear how ridiculously excessive that number was. But he remained oblivious. 

“Yeah, I’m going to print five hundred at most.” 

“What if we run out?” 

That was never going to happen. Courfeyrac would be happy if then handed out half that many. 

“Then we’ll print more.” 

“On a Saturday?” 

“Please, I have a key.” 

“Do I want to know why?” 

“What if I have a date on this side of town? Things are going well, the Metro’s stopped running and I have no money for a cab? I’m not going to waste this perfectly good deskage.” Courfeyrac lied with flare. He wasn’t exactly sure why he’d been entrusted with a key (or an office for that matter), but he wasn’t going to argue. 

“You’re incorrigible.” 

“But you love me. Right, I really do have to get back to work now, especially if you expect me to print out 500 illegal flyers.” 

“At least thousand?” 

“Goodbye Enjolras.” 

He put the phone down and stared at the wall for a few moments trying to figure out how the hell he was supposed to print out that many flyers without anyone noticing. 

Eponine. 

She’d know what to do. 

= 

Courfeyrac stopped off at his apartment just long enough to drop off the boxes of flyers and change into his jogging gear. His thoughts were all over the place and he needed to blow off a little steam. With cheesy pop tunes at full volume in his ears he raced through the streets of Paris, through the Jardin du Tuilleries and along the Seine before double back to his apartment. The air was crisp and refreshing and the leaves were just beginning to turn. Courfeyrac was definitely loved summer the most, but he couldn’t deny there was something comforting and nostalgic about golden autumn evenings. 

His limbs ached as he climbed the endless stairs back up to his apartment, but his thoughts were clear and he felt sufficiently reinvigorated. All he needed now was a nice long shower and an evening with friends and he’d be as good as new. 

The water cascaded around him, fogging up the shower screen and clouding the mirror. He tipped his head back and exhaled, letting a slow smile spread across his face as the warmth engulfed him. 

About 45 minutes later he emerged, flushed pink from the heat and feeling almost blissful. He wrapped a towel round his waist, and danced towards his bedroom; skidding to a halt when he spotted Grantaire sitting on his couch. 

“Jesus Christ,” he gasped, “what the fuck are you doing here?” 

“It’s Friday.” Grantaire shrugged, not taking his eyes from Courfeyrac’s TV. “We’re going to get wasted.” 

Courfeyrac dragged a hand through his wet hair, sending water trickling down his neck. “Right,” he nodded. “Okay.” His shocked frown transformed into a smile. Drinks with friends was exactly the remedy he was looking for. “Who else is coming?” 

“Bahorel’s busy – I think he has a date?” 

“Bahorel has a _date?_ What is everyone just trying to rub it in my face?” he muttered, to which Grantaire just smirked. 

“I invited Pontmercy, but who knows. Ep said she’d come if she could get someone to watch Gav. Enjolras is busy planning for tomorrow…so it might just be us.” He threw his arm over the back of the sofa and turned round, eyebrows shooting up into his hairline. 

“You might need to put a shirt on,” 

“I _just_ got out of the shower,” 

“Oh is that what you were doing, sounded like a one man Broadway show,” 

Courfeyrac gave him a playful shove as he crossed towards his bedroom. 

“All that jogging’s clearly good for something though,” Grantaire smirked, turning back to the TV. 

Courfeyrac stuck his head round the door of his bedroom, confused. 

“You’re looking very trim.” Grantaire called back over his shoulder. 

Courfeyrac glanced down at his stomach with a questioning frown. He’d always been in good shape, perhaps with slightly more of a tummy than could be considered great, but looking at his reflection now…. He twisted from side to side. He did look pretty fantastic. 

“Stop admiring your reflection, I want to get drunk,” Grantaire whined from the living room. 

“Give me five,” 

“Five what, hours?” Grantaire chuckled. 

= 

Considerably more than five minutes later, they were sauntering down the stairs from Courfeyrac’s apartment and headed towards the metro. Courfeyrac was more than happy to let Grantaire pick a destination, he had an uncanny knack for picking the perfect spot. True to form, he led them into an tucked away bar which happened to be hosting a cocktail perfecting evening. Which not only meant that the bar staff were experimenting with lots of unusual concoctions, but had the added bonus of everything being half off. They settled onto stools around the large rectangular bar which was placed in the centre of the room and got stuck into the fanciful drinks. 

It didn’t take long for them to be pleasantly, mindlessly drunk. The counter before them filled up with drinks, and they were soon suggesting new drinks and names for the barstaff to try. Courfeyrac managed to invent a violently blue drink with involve blue curaco and kiwifruit juice (amongst other ingredients which he’d already forgotten) and was merrily slurping it through a straw. 

“Honestly if you want Combeferre to ask you out, just wear that teeny tiny towel of yours, and he’s bound to cave.” 

“Seriously?” 

“Serious. I mean, I was about to jump you, and you aren’t even my type.” 

“What, because I’m not Achilles 2.0?” 

Grantaire laughed, turning away and taking a swig of his more modest coloured cocktail. As far as Courfeyrac could tell it was made entirely of whisky and Malibu. “That would be funny, if it weren’t true.” 

“Speaking of Achilles’ 21st century doppelganger,” Courfeyrac hedged, smirking and swirling his straw round his blue concoction, “how are things with you and Enjolras?” Grantaire groaned. “Huh, don’t,” he said. “It’s stupid.” 

But there was an ‘it’, then. 

“I’m the King of Stupid.” Okay, that had sounded better in Courfeyrac’s head, but the sentiment remained true. “try me,” 

“You know those flyers?” Grantaire asked, plonking down his glass and leaning forward, forearms resting on the bar top. 

“Yeah, they’re funny,” Courfeyrac smiled. 

“Well, I made three,” Grantaire explained, his eyes briefly meeting Courfeyrac’s before taking another sweep of the establishment. “The first two were amazing; masterpieces of political pamphlets. You could have put them in an art museum. The third I made as a joke, the Serious was getting a bit too overwhelming. I showed him the silly one first, expecting him to cut me down,at which point I could shove it in his face, like ‘ha ha’, you thought I wasn’t taking this seriously, you know?” Grantaire sighed and paused to sip some drink. “But he chose the first one.” 

“Wait a second,” Courfeyrac interjected. “So you’re mad, because he didn’t get mad.” 

“I told you it was stupid.” 

“My god,” Courfeyrac chuckled. “You two have some serious issues which you need to work on, seriously.” 

“Trust me, I know,” Grantaire shook his head. “I just…don’t get it. He always criticises me for not taking things seriously – then when I do?” 

“Your communication skills suck!” Courfeyrac told him bluntly, slurping through his straw, big brown eyes widened in an attempt to ease the blow. It must have work because Grantaire simply shook his head. 

But it was true, if they only talked to each other, they wouldn’t have half the problems they did. 

“I’m not sure I want relationship advice from the guy who couldn’t get a date before Enjolras.” 

“Ha!” Courfeyrac replied, “Says the guy who’s _dating_ Enjolras.” 

“You know what,” Grantaire began, smiling, “I can’t be dealing with this conversation right now – what time is it that you’re supposed to be flyering tomorrow?” 

“You know Enjolras; 8am sharp. He has no common sense.” 

“You realise it’s getting on to 2am, right?” 

“No way, _shiiit_ ,” Courfeyrac checked his phone and almost dropped it in shock. He stumbled from his chair, reaching for his jacket with uncoordinated movements. 

“You not coming?” 

“No way. I made the flyers, _ergo_ I don’t have to distribute them,” he beamed, reaching across for the rest of Courfeyrac’s blue cocktail and drinking from it smugly. “I plan on drinking every stupid drink this place has to offer.” 

Courfeyrac glanced at the bar longingly. “Remind me to make them next time then.” He shrugged on his jacket, fumbling with the collar, and hoping he had enough money for a cab home. 

“But seriously, if you get sick of waiting for the end of the month, then try the towel thing!” Grantaire shouted after him. 

“Why don’t you talk to Enjolras and then get back to me!” Courfeyrac yelled back with a smirk. 

“Good _night_ , Courfeyrac,” Grantaire sang.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, my eternal thanks to [Kim](http://combeferree.tumblr.com/), and a reminder to go and check out the companion piece she's writing for this: [Love at First Collision](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1776337/chapters/3803857).
> 
> Sorry there's no actual C2 interaction in this, but I thought the L-bomb rather made up for that! There'll be plenty of courferre gazing awkwardly at each other in the next one, I promise. Comments are always incredibly appreciated! (even if I don't have time to reply to them all anymore, sorry!) <3


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh wow, I am _so, so sorry_ for the delay between chapters. I was in a pretty weird headspace towards the end of last year and could not find it within myself to write (I was also pretty terrified of butchering the story!) We're almost at the end now though. Thank you for sticking with me thus far, I hope you like it! xo
> 
> (as always, my eternal thanks to [Kim](http://combeferree.tumblr.com/) for putting up with my rambling thoughts and being a so supportive <3)

Courfeyrac was never ever drinking again. When his alarm went off at 6.30am with a shrill shriek, he buried his head under a pillow and cursed his life choices. It took him a few moments to realise that he was still fully dressed from the night before, lying atop the duvet rather than under it, with the waist band of his jeans digging uncomfortably into his stomach. 

He had at least had the foresight to kick his shoes off before collapsing on his bed, but he’d failed to pull the curtains closed. As a result, pale watery sunlight flooded into the room. He lifted his head weakly and squinted against the light. The windows were misted with condensation; it was going to be _cold._

Wailing melodramatically, Courfeyrac slumped back into his pillows and tried to summon the energy to get out of bed. 

An hour later he was jolted awake by someone hammering on his door. Grumbling and mumbling Courfeyrac rolled onto his back and opened an eye. He was just about to force himself out of bed when Enjolras strode into the room. He took a moment to laugh at Courfeyrac’s sorry state before plonking a bottle of water and a box of aspirin on the bedside table. 

“Get up, we’re going flyering.” 

Courfeyrac groaned something unintelligible. 

“I know you don’t want to,” Enjolras interpreted Courf’s mumblings; it was a unique skill he’d honed in college. “But you promised. Get in the show and I’ll put some coffee on.” He checked his watch, which was worn with the face twisted in towards his palm. “It’s only just gone 7.40, we should still get there by half eight, if we hurry.” 

Mornings and hurrying should never, in Courfeyrac’s opinion, occur in the same train of thought. Especially when hangovers were involved. His mouth felt like he’d spent all night eating cotton wool and his head was pounding a drumbeat to a particularly energetic song. He swiped the bottle of water from beside his bed and drained it as he padded to the bathroom. 

He was going to take a nice long shower, eat a proper breakfast, and drink a bucketful of coffee. Then, and only then, would they go flyering. Enjolras would just have to wait. 

= 

By the time they reached the Jardin du Luxembourg it was approaching 10am. Courfeyrac’s spirits had lifted and he was feeling almost his happy and bubbly self. Enjolras, by contrast, had a face like the weather; overcast and brooding, with storm clouds on the horizon. He was convinced that they’d wasted the morning and missed countless potential recruits. Even the sight of the empty concourse did nothing to persuade him otherwise. 

“Everyone’s still in bed,” Courfeyrac assured him. “It’ll get busy later.” 

Only it didn’t. 

By 11.30 they’d only managed to distribute a handful of flyers, and their hope that thing would pick up at lunch time were dashed when it began to rain. It was barely noticeable at first, a few drops here and there until the heavens opened and unleashed a torrent of hacking, bone drenching rain which soaked them in seconds. The flyers quickly turned soggy and the ink began to run. Courfeyrac found himself holding a bunch of smudged unreadable flyers with red and black ink all over his fingers. 

“This is hopeless!” Courfeyrac shouted over the rain which was falling in sheets, hammering on the pavements. He could barely see Enjolras through his sodden fringe, and people moving across the concourse were reduced to dark smudges flitting through the rain. “Let’s go somewhere dry!” 

Enjolras looked like he was about to protest, but thunder rumbled in the distance and he consented. 

Hastily, they stuffed the flyers back into the boxes. Courfeyrac balanced them into the crook of his arm, taking a moment to swipe his fringe from his forehead. Rain dripped from his eyelashes and hung heavy from his clothes. He wriggled his toes in his canvas pumps and found them squelching and sodden. 

“Alright, let’s go.” Enjolras snapped. His voice only just carried over the din of the rain which rushed around them with a roar and splattered on the pavements like a thousand people tap dancing. 

Courfeyrac shifted the boxes in his arms and squinted into the gloom. Either his eyes were deceiving him, or someone was racing towards them. Who could possibly be stupid enough to stay out in this weather with them? As they grew closer, Courfeyrac recognised the shape of the pea coat and the strong, sloping gait. He had just enough time to compose himself before Combeferre called out a greeting. He was huddled under an umbrella but still managed to look drenched. Water was dripping off his glasses and a rain drop clung stubbornly to the end of his nose. 

“I was coming to join you, but I suspect you’re about ready to pack it in?” 

“Yeah, we’re going somewhere dry!” Courf replied with a grin. “Come with us.” 

“My place is closest?” Enjolras offered. 

Courfeyrac quickly agreed and they set off at a half walk, half jog, all trying to squeeze under the umbrella. It hadn’t been large enough for two; it definitely didn’t cover the three of them. But somehow trying to stand underneath it felt better than facing the rain alone. 

Enjolras only lived a ten minute walk away but reaching it felt like an ordeal. The gutters had quickly turned into rivers and they found themselves practically wading through certain streets. Once they finally reached the building, a large cream stone apartment block on the corner of crossroads, they filed through the entrance and paused, dripping on the floor. Courfeyrac had never felt so glad to be out of the rain. He dropped the boxes of ruined flyers and shook out his arms, kicking his feet up and down to try and shake the water free. He didn’t think he’d be as wet even if he’d jumped in the Seine. 

Fortunately, unlike Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s building, the block Enjolras lived in had a working elevator. Leaving three puddles on the stone tiles of the entrance hall they stepped inside and rode it to the topmost floor. 

The apartment was set into the attic, with the ceiling sloping towards the dormer windows, and built into the corner giving them views on two sides. The large window on the north side of the building had a Juliet balcony which overlooked the Seine, and the rest formed little alcoves or window seats which had been stuffed with cushions. It surprised many people to know that Enjolras’ decorative taste was not the sleek, chrome, minimalist that most people assumed. The truth was neither Enjolras nor Grantaire had any sort of decorative taste between them. The resultant apartment was a messy clash of styles created from items of furniture that seemed comfortable, or practical, or held sentimental value. And where furniture failed, books took their place. There were more books in that apartment in some small libraries. But unlike Combeferre’s apartment, where they were neatly stacked on bookshelves or sideboards, here they were strewn everywhere. A tower of heavy law textbooks were stacked as an end table beside an arm chair and a couple of particularly sturdy hardbacks were being used to prop up the corner of the broken TV cabinet. It was cluttered and messy and chaotic, but it felt like home. An easy smile spread across Courfeyrac's face as they crossed the threshold. Ever since Bahorel had bought the ridiculous excuse for a TV they'd stopped holding movie nights here, but they really needed to rekindle the tradition. He missed the cozy living room, and everyone trying to squeeze onto the sofa as Enjolras burnt the popcorn. 

Enjolras slammed the door shut behind them, and a mop of inky black curls bolted upright from the couch. Grantaire rubbed at his eyes sleepily and blinked at the three of them. It took a moment for his brain to wake up and register that it was odd for them to be dripping wet. When it did he snorted a laugh and flopped back onto the sofa, addressing them with his head burrowed out of view. 

“How’d it go?” his tone was smug. 

“It was an unmitigated disaster.” Enjolras complained. He dropped his box of flyers on the door mat and stomped across the living room. “Bathroom’s down here if you need to dry off." he told them. "R’ll find you some clothes,” 

Courfeyrac heard Grantaire mumble something which sounded like ‘R will lie here and sleep his hangover off’, but he did proceed to push himself off the sofa and stumble towards the bedroom. He returned with an armful of clothes which were thrown carelessly at Courfeyrac. 

“They’re clean, I think,” he paused to add, before face-planting back on the sofa. Enjolras retreated into the bedroom leaving Courfeyrac and Combeferre to awkwardly navigate the bathroom. 

“You first,” Combeferre told Courfeyrac. 

“Are you sure?” 

Combeferre nodded and left the room, pulling the door closed behind him. Courf stripped quickly (how on earth were his boxers so soaking?) and pulled on a pair of jogging bottoms and t-shirt without really inspecting them. He grabbed a towel off the rail and ruffled it through his hair. He was going to look a mess. His only consolation was that Combeferre would be just as bad, and besides, he’d always preferred Combeferre’s hair in its messy hand ruffled state. He had to hope the same could be said for himself. 

Stealing a glance at the mirror, Courfeyrac froze and stared at his reflection with his mouth agape. Somehow he’d smeared ink all over his forehead. How had that - ? Why had no one said anything?! The rain hadn’t even helped wipe it away, instead he had what looked like red and black tear tracks leaking down this cheek. 

He stuffed the towel under the tap and scrubbed at the side of face. He was ruining the towel, but right then salvaging what remained of his dignity was more important. Satisfied that he'd got most of it, Courfeyrac threw the towel in the bath and hung his rain soaked clothes on the radiator. Taking a deep breath, he met the gaze of his reflection and sternly reminded himself that he’d often paraded around with far worse on his face, It was hardly the end of the world. Anyway, if Combeferre really liked him (he was still a little uncertain on that point) then a few ink stains weren’t going to change that. And if they did, well then Combeferre wasn’t the man Courfeyrac thought he was. 

Courfeyrac was getting sidetracked. And poor Combeferre was still dripping on the other side of the door. he pulled himself together and opened the door with a flourish. 

“Bathroom’s yours.” he beamed up at Combeferre. 

Combeferre didn’t more right away. He stared at Courfeyrac with a fond expression. 

Courfeyrac was just about to ask what was wrong when - 

“I’d hit that,” Combeferre chuckled. 

Courfeyrac’s heart stopped and he felt his ears flushing. _What?! Really?_ He couldn’t possibly have heard correctly, could he really? Combeferre would _hit that_ , hit _him_? _Fuck. Well okay then._ He broke into a smirk and was about to roll off a playful response when he realised Combeferre was staring at his t-shirt. Glancing down Courfeyrac realised the words were written across his chest, above a colourful piñata. 

“Oh, yeah,” Courf replied, slightly crestfallen. “Must be Grantaire’s,” 

“I wonder what’s left for me.” Combeferre's eyes twinkled and he stepped forwards, pausing in front of Courfeyrac. He lifted a finger a gently dabbed his own cheek, “you have something…” 

“Oh?” Courfeyrac’s heart was still trying to recover. Now it was beating far to fast. He held his breath and lifted his face towards Combeferre. 

“Just,” Combeferre hesitated slightly before swiping his thumb across the top of Courfeyrac’s cheekbone. “There. Paint, I think,” he rubbed his thumb against his palm to disperse the smudge of black, but didn’t move anything further. 

Courfeyrac could feel Combeferre’s breath tickling his cheek. He could see the rain drops pooling in the ends of his hair. His lips were slightly chapped and parted ever so slightly. He had a small brown mole under his left nostril. 

It would have been so easy for Courfeyrac to rock forwards onto his tip toes, to close the space between them and crash their lips together. He’d been in similar situations enough times to read the longing in Combeferre’s eyes. Finally the uncertainty melted away. Courfeyrac remembered Jehan's words _'I’ve never seen him look at someone the way he looks at you.'_ It was true? Combeferre really liked him... Courfeyrac inhaled slightly, so desperate to close the gap and kiss him. It was clear now, they both wanted this. But for the next 8 days, 9 hours and 14 minutes Combeferre had to be the one to initiate things. Why couldn’t this stupid month be over all ready? 

Fighting against every fibre of his being, Courfeyrac closed his eyes and leant back, slinking out of Combeferre’s way and moping across the living room to slump beside Grantaire on the couch. 

He waited until he heard the bathroom door click shut before throwing an angry swipe at Grantaire’s legs. 

“I hate you, I hate this month. I hate my life. I hate everything.” 

Grantaire twisted upright and pulled Courfeyrac into a hug. He mussed Courf’s already mussed up hair and patted his arm in mock sympathy. 

“I’ve already told you. Teeny tiny towel. It will work wonders, I promise.” 

Courfeyrac glanced at the bathroom door and pouted. He was beginning to think it was the only chance he had.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We made it! Thanks to everyone for sticking with this, and for all your kind words of encouragement! Your comments mean the world to me. Sorry this took me forever to write. I hope you like it :D
> 
> Also, if you've haven't checked it out yet, then I highly recommend reading [Love at First Collision](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1776337/chapters/3803857) a wonderful companion piece to this fic, written from Combeferre's point of view! Thanks again to the lovely [Kim](http://combeferree.tumblr.com/) for writing it (and for putting up with my endless ramblings about this fic <3)

The rain persisted; lashing against the windows and hammering on the roof. There didn’t appear to be much point venturing outside until it had at least died down, so they stayed curled up on the sofa. Combeferre seemed a little uncomfortable at first, perching on the end of the sofa; straight backed and acting acutely aware of the way his thigh brushed against Coufeyrac’s legs. Courfeyrac was having none of that though. He twisted even more into Grantaire and picked up his legs, depositing them across Combeferre’s lap with a smile. Combeferre startled and for a moment seemed unsure, but no one could begrudge Courf’s tactility for long. He softened into the sofa and relaxed his arms. He propped one against the arm rest and laid the other alongside Courfeyrac’s legs. After a while his fingers began to absently play with the hem of the tracksuit trousers. Something bright blossomed in Courfeyrac’s chest and he gave a happy little hum. 

They watched _10 Things I Hate About You_ because it was on, and after a while Enjolras emerged from the shower dressed in soft, comfortable looking jeans and a huge green hoodie that must once have belonged to Grantaire. His hair was fluffy and his cheeks scrubbed pink. He made a round of hot chocolate for everyone and handed them round, leaning down to press a soft kiss against Grantaire’s temple, before folding himself into the arm chair and fixing his attention on the TV. It was so easy, and so relaxed; one of the most pleasant afternoon’s Courfeyrac could recall. He began to sign along with the soundtrack, until Grantaire buried his face under a cushion, and by the time Heath Ledger promised that there would always drums and bass and maybe even one day a tambourine, he was crying happy tears. It wasn’t a surprise, 

Courfeyrac cried during most films (he’d even been known to shed a tear through some commercials). 

“I love that film so much,” he sniffled as the credits rolled, the TV channel rudely informing them of what was coming next rather than letting the bloopers play. 

“It’s stopped raining,” Combeferre announced quietly. “We should probably go home.” 

“Yeah,” Courfeyrac agreed with a sad pout. He was reluctant to leave this little bubble and dispel the illusion that he and Ferre were spending a couples’ afternoon with Enjolras and Grantaire. 

They rode the metro home in a comfortable silence, Courfeyrac - still feeling sleepy and lethargic from the cosy afternoon – rested his head against Combeferre’s shoulder and tried not to think too much about what would happen when they reached their apartment building. 

They lingered on their landing, both reluctant to leave and neither of them able to say what they really wanted; to invite the other over and continue what had been building at Enjolras and Grantaire’s. 

“Thanks for coming to help today. Sorry you got rained on,” Courfeyrac said feebly. It was so far from what he really wanted to express. 

“No problem. Maybe we’ll have more luck next time.” Combeferre smiled. 

“Yeah, maybe we will.” They didn’t seem to be talking about the flyers anymore though. 

Courfeyrac remembered the almost kiss with a hopeless sense of longing. 

“See you,” Combeferre gave his half-wave-half-salute and disappeared into his apartment, leaving Courfeyrac pining outside his door. 

There was nothing for it. Operation Teeny Tiny towel was ago. 

=

Sunday dawned bright and sunny. Courfeyrac rolled out of bed with a smile on his face, it seemed like an auspicious day and he couldn’t think of any reasons to delay the Towel Tactic any longer. In retrospect, he probably should have put a little more thought into it. 

**Me:** answer your damn phone! 

**Me:** this is all ur fault [angry emoji] 

**Me:** R!!!! this is more important than sex, pick up your phone. 

Courf’s phone buzzed in his palm and he swiped to answer the call with an angry flick. He growled at Grantaire in lieu of saying hello. 

“More important than sex? Well that’s a first – though what makes you think I was getting so lucky?” 

“Neither you or Enjolras were answering your phone. I figured,” he waved his arm vaguely and left the sentence hanging. 

“I wish. Enj’s at the office.” 

“It’s Sunday.” 

“Tell that to his boss.” Grantaire grumbled. “What’s so urgent then?” 

“I tried the towel thing.” 

“Oh! And?” 

“He’s not in.” 

“Well that sucks, try again later?” 

But it wasn’t that simple. See, Courf’s idea had been a brilliant one; ‘accidentally’ lock himself out of his apartment, go to Combeferre’s to wait until Enjolras appeared with a spare key, and accidentally end up making out on Combeferre’s sofa in the meantime. 

Combeferre was supposed to be in. Courfeyrac had checked what he knew of Ferre’s schedule, twice, and looked on his twitter to make sure he didn’t have plans. He was supposed to be in. 

Now Courfeyrac was locked out of his apartment, dripping wet, wearing nothing but a very small towel and Enjolras wasn’t picking up his phone. 

“I’m locked out.” 

Grantaire didn’t immediately understand the implications, when he did his response was less than helpful. 

“Stop laughing and get your ass down here. Do you still have a spare key?” 

Grantaire could barely talk, he was laughing so much. “Yeah,” he gasped. “It’s at home.” 

“Then get a move on!” 

“I’m all the way across town,” he wheezed, taking a very deep breath and trying to compose himself. “It’ll take me a while to get back and get to yours.” 

“How long?” 

“An hour, maybe longer?” 

An hour? He couldn’t sit on the landing for an hour. “R!” he wailed. 

“Give me forty five minutes.” 

“I’m giving you twelve,” Courfeyrac pouted. “This is all your fault.” 

“How’s that?” 

“It was your idea!” 

“I don’t ever recall telling you to lock yourself out of your apartment,” Grantaire chuckled. “See you in an hour, Courf. Hey, maybe Ferre will home sooner?” 

Courfeyrac grumbled curses at Grantaire and hung up, not entirely sure what to do. 

Taking Grantaire’s advice to heart, he’d wrapped what was usually a hair towel (significantly smaller than his usual bath sheet) around his waist and rolled the top down a few times to secure it in place. The cotton fabric rested across his hips, and stopped mid-thigh; leaving very little to the imagination and an awful lot of exposed skin to the chilly autumn air. The communal area wasn’t heated, and it was only getting colder. 

Courfeyrac inspected the floor outside his apartment, and then the stairs leading to the floor above. He didn’t fancy the idea of sitting down, not trusting the towel to cover everything if he did. But equally, standing for an hour didn’t seem all that appealing either. 

He was in the process of trying to rearrange the towel so that he might safely sit down, when he heard the front doors bang open and then closed down stairs. He tensed, heart suddenly hammering in chest. He wished fervently that it was Combeferre, coming home from wherever he’d spontaneously disappeared to. Courfeyrac ruffled his hair and tried to adopt a suitably seductive manner, only to be disappointed when Mme. Durand rounded the corner. 

“Hello, dearie,” she smiled at him, focusing on climbing the stairs than on Courfeyrac’s appearance. “Oh my,” she stopped as she reached the top of the stairs and blinked at him. 

“Hello,” Courfeyrac smiled sadly. 

“Are you alright?” 

“Not really, I’m locked out.” 

She glanced at the towel, and the phone in his hand, and pursed her lips with a knowing expression. Courfeyrac frowned. 

“Is he not in?” she gestured at Combeferre’s flat. Courfeyrac could only bring himself to shake his head, his bottom lip pouting as he did so. He was being petulant, but this had been his last chance. He didn’t know what to do now – he certainly wasn’t going to trust any of Grantaire’s ideas ever again. 

“Oh dear. You seem to have a habit of missing each other,” she mused, and Courfeyrac had no idea what she meant by that. “Do need somewhere to wait until the locksmith comes?” 

“Yes please.” He nodded gratefully. “My friend’s on his way with a spare key, he shouldn’t be too long,” 

“Not to worry,” she smiled and began climbing the next flight of stairs. She must have been at least sixty, and moved a lot slower than Courfeyrac, but he patiently kept pace with her. “Lucky you had your phone on you.” She commented. 

Courfeyrac swore she winked at him. 

“How does one go about locking themselves out of their apartment in just a towel?” she asked, there was something smug about her tone. Courfeyrac felt like he was missing half of a conversation somewhere. 

“It’s a long story,” Courfeyrac sighed. 

Mme. Durand just hummed with a smile. 

Her flat was directly above Combeferre’s, but despite the identical layout, it couldn’t have been more different. There were flowers everywhere; the carpets, the curtains, the cushion covers, even the lamp shades. She told him to take seat on the flower patterned sofa and then busied herself removing her overcoat and swapping into her slippers. Courfeyrac wriggled the towel to cover as much of himself as possible, feeling a little exposed and incredibly foolish. 

“I don’t have any clothes that will fit you, are you alright as you are?” 

“Yeah, fine,” he waved away her concern. “My friend’ll be here soon.” 

“I can get you a drink though, coco?” she offered. 

“That would be lovely, thank you.” 

He’d only spoken to Mme. Durand a few times, but he already liked her a lot; she’d had lovely things to say about his misshapen cookies and had even given him a few pointers for perfecting the recipe in future. 

She handed him a mug of hot chocolate in a flower patterned cup which he took gratefully. It smelt delicious, and looked like it had been made from actual chocolate rather than the store bought powder. 

She disappeared for a moment and then returned with a plate of cakes that she set onto the coffee table. 

“You like baking, don’t you?” she asked, taking a seat beside him and serving up a portion of cake for him. Courfeyrac didn’t recognise what it was, although it smelt delicious. 

Courfeyrac smiled and nodded. “I’m not that good though.” He could just about manage cookies and cupcakes from scratch, but his baking wouldn’t win any awards. He thanked her for the cake and tucked in. It was delicious; yeasty and filled with dried fruits and marzipan. 

“This is amazing!” he gushed through a mouthful, before realising it was rude. 

“Thank you.” 

He swallowed his mouthful and apologised sheepishly, before asking what it was. 

“Stollen. My Grandmother was German, she would always bake it around Christmas time, and I’m afraid I’ve started a little earlier this year,” she grinned and Courfeyrac could suddenly see the mischievous young woman Mme. Durand must once have been. 

She told him about the recipe and explained secrets tips, which Courfeyrac listened too eagerly. It sounded far too complicated for him to ever attempt to make it himself, but he was fascinated just the same. She reminded him of his Nana, and somehow things weren’t as awkward as they should have been – given that he was sitting on her couch half naked. 

Courfeyrac had almost forgotten to feel upset about the disastrous attempt at wooing Combeferre, that was until Mme. Durand stood up to fetch a recipe book and took a moment to peer out of her window. 

“I think he’s home,” she smiled fondly. 

Courfeyrac actually leapt to his feet and darted to the window, just in time to see Combeferre ducking through the front door. 

He began to flap. 

“Go,” she urged. 

Courf nodded and dashed for the door, throwing a thank you over his shoulder. He could hear Mme. Durand laughing softly as he pulled the front door closed behind him. 

He didn’t have time to strike any nonchalant poses, or fix his hair. He reached the bottom step just as Combeferre climbed into their landing. 

Courfeyrac’s chest rose and fell as he breathed heavily, slightly out of breath after running down the stairs. 

Combeferre stared at him. His mouth opened but he was unable to bring himself to say anything. 

Courfeyrac grinned, and crossed the space between them, delighting in the way Combeferre’s gaze raked across his chest. 

“I’m locked out,” he breathed, crowding Combeferre’s personal space. 

Combeferre dragged his eyes up from Courf’s torso to meet his eyes. He actually gulped. 

“I’m going to kiss you now,” Combeferre said quietly, like he didn’t believe the words as they tumbled from his mouth. 

Courfeyrac nodded eagerly, bouncing up on the balls of his feet, his eyes widening in anticipation. 

Combeferre nodded and then leant in, tenderly, chastely at first. Until Courfeyrac wound his hands behind Combeferre’s neck and pulled him closer. He teased open Combeferre’s mouth with his tongue until they were kissing passionately, furiously. It was everything Courfeyrac could have ever hoped for and more. 

Why hadn’t they been doing this since the start? 

They broke away, breathless. Combeferre’s glassed were askew, his hair was thoroughly debauched, and he looked completely stunned by what had happened. Courfeyrac’s grin grew. 

“Would you, would you like to come inside?” Combeferre stammered. 

“Yes please,” Courfeyrac breathed, hands fisting in the lapels of Combeferre’s pea coat. 

Courfeyrac moved slowly, savouring every single moment. He eased Combeferre’s coat from his shoulders and slowly unbuttoned his shirt, backing him against the sofa and kissing him languidly, like they had all the time in the world. 

“I’ve wanted to do this for too long,” Courfeyrac admitted in a rush of breath, running his hands underneath Combeferre’s collar and kissing along his jawline. “Stop me if this moves too fast,” he whispered, pausing to nip at Ferre’s lobe. 

“God,” Combeferre moaned as Courfeyrac kissed down his neck. “What took us so long?” 

“I wanted to ask you out since I first ran into you,” Courfeyrac pressed his answer into Combeferre’s skin, parting his unbuttoned shirt and moving to kiss along his collar bone. He was stunned to find a tattoo, a small phrase etched in a neat, curling script. Little keys can open heavy doors. He traced it with his tongue, making a mental note to ask Combeferre about it later, right then he had other things on his mind. 

Combeferre traced his hands up Courfeyrac’s back, his fingers were smooth and his hands felt strong. “Why didn’t you?” 

“I couldn’t,” Courfeyrac sat up slightly, straddling Combeferre’s lap, with his hands splayed across Ferre’s chest. “There was this bet.” His dipped his head and laughed, it was going to sound so silly now. 

Combeferre tensed beneath him, and Courf glanced up to see him frowning. Flashes of the bet from _10 Things I Hate About You_ flooded Courf’s mind and he stumbled over his words in his haste to dispel any miscommunication. 

“No, no. Nothing like that. I lost a bet,” he rubbed reassuring circles into Combeferre’s shoulders. “And wasn’t allowed to ask anyone out for a month.” 

Combeferre sighed, visibly relaxing. 

“Well that was daft,” he exhaled, his hands coming to rest on Courfeyrac’s hips once more. 

“Extremely,” he swooped down to plant a kiss on Combeferre’s mouth. “I’ve been trying to get you to ask me out for weeks.” 

“So that’s what you’ve been doing.” His voice was coloured with laughter. 

“I clearly didn’t do a very good job,” Courfeyrac flushed slightly and pressed his forehead against Combeferre’s. It felt so comfortable and so right. He never wanted this moment to end. 

Combeferre’s hands were carding through his hair and then they were kissing again. 

“I was worried you didn’t like me,” he confessed very softly. 

“I do,” Courfeyrac assured him, sucking on his lower lip and nuzzling their noses together. “I _really_ do.” 

“Me too.” 

Courfeyrac smiled against Combeferre’s mouth, their teeth clacked slightly and they both giggled. 

“Courfeyrac?” Combeferre asked later, when they were sprawled on his mattress, basking in a warm afterglow. “Would you like to go out for coffee?” 

Courfeyrac arched up to press a kiss against Combeferre’s jaw. “I want nothing more,” he beamed, and he meant it. He nestled his head against Combeferre’s chest and gave a happy sigh of utter contentment. All of the waiting, all of the pining, all of the agonising was finally over. And it was oh so worth it. 

\- The End -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If everyone asks super nicely there might be a little epilogue, but for now this is it! Phew!
> 
> Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed it. Comments are highly appreciated, and if anyone fancied drawing Courfeyrac in his teeny tiny towel I think I might love your forever <3
> 
> xo

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr!](http://trenchcoatsandtimetravel.tumblr.com/)


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